


a midsummer night's nightmare

by deliveryservice



Category: Produce 101 (TV), Wanna One (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Depression, Multi, Slow Burn, Substance Abuse, don't expect them to start sucking faces by 2 chapters, everyone ends up alright, i forgot to add the slow burn tag lmao, so i guess slightly angsty with a happy ending?, the relation progresses slowly and subtly though so like, the warnings are for the future chapters but hERE they are, this isn't as dark as the warnings might make it sound though, while those things are present at the end this isn't meant to be angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-17 04:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 90,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11844138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliveryservice/pseuds/deliveryservice
Summary: As the record would have it, Park Woojin's life is ridiculous: befriending a transfer student he'd saved from getting bullied, gaining a punishment forcing him to partake as the theatre club's tree hopeful, and sharpening his acting chops with the help of the costume director, Park Jihoon.





	1. cd i.

**Author's Note:**

> pink sausages have taken over my life, help me?? this story has already been outlined by the way, and will be three chapters long! if it ever becomes four chapters it'd be for an epilogue, i guess. this might be a little rough considering i'm planning on fully editing this once all the chapters are posted but it's still readable, i'd reckon.

**NOW PLAYING** : Intro of CD 1 –  _[Teenagers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O8wLwoKEioo)_.

Not that Woojin wants to sound like the typical male lead of every high school themed movie ever, but he doesn’t know the first thing  _why_  some people have the idea that being a bully in high school would give you extra points. Or maybe that’s just Ha Minho’s (highly flawed) way of thinking, because there’s got to be a reason why Woojin’s seeing this with his own two eyes: the senior slamming someone at least a head taller than him into a locker, and in any other event, the sight could be almost comical, considering the person he’s picking on barely flinches, and his legs stay rooted to the floor—that’s how tall he is. But, the situation isn’t funny at all, considering Woojin can see the bullied’s frown despite being more than a few steps away, and the sneer curling on Minho’s face isn’t a good sign; never has been, and never will be.

“Hey, that’s enough!” Woojin’s voices carries through the hall as he makes his way through the crowd gathering at the scene, students whipping out their cellphones to take videos and pictures of the one-sided fight, maybe even posting it on their Snapchat stories without making a single effort to  _help_  the kid; it sickens Woojin, sends a wave of anger and the feeling of injustice that drapes his emotions like solid matter. His generation, apparently, is one that would rather take videos and pictures instead of gathering the guts to help someone in need; then again, is Woojin really surprised? (A solid ‘no’ is the answer to that. He’s stopped having faith in humanity since he found out Jay Z cheated on Beyoncé— _why would someone even have the_ audacity  _to cheat on Béyonce_.)

Ha Minho pauses, his fist freezing in the air, and he glances to his side. Seeing Woojin there, who must’ve forgotten to pat down his bedhead because Minho laughs as soon as his eyes rest at the top of Woojin’s head, he releases his hold on the person he’d been picking on, though it doesn’t make much of a difference to the boy, considering he hadn’t been lifted in the air during that entirety at all. Woojin, who considers himself of purely average height (and he’s come to terms with that, really!), can’t relate to that kind of tall person privilege.

“It’s you.” Minho gives Woojin a once over that Woojin doesn’t necessarily appreciate, his nose sniffing in distaste. “What, do you think you can do something about this?” He gestures at the other boy, previously held at neckpoint (Woojin’s not even sure if that’s a word), now looking between the both of them with wide, panicked eyes; Woojin worries about the possibility that his eyeballs might fall out if he keeps glancing over between him and Minho with that ferocity.

“I do think I can, yeah,” Woojin easily says, and pulls the silent boy with the frenzied eyes behind him, noting how easy it is for him to do so; tall, the boy might be, but he’s skinny—to the point it worries Woojin, because when you’re nearly as tall as the top of the locker, the amount of food you’re supposed to eat grows, too. Even Woojin, whose height reaches only to the third row of the locker, eats with a portion the size of a one man army.

“Do you really want to try me?” Minho drops his voice, as if he’s expecting Woojin to start quivering with fear, but all Woojin can think is how ridiculous the older sounds, attempting to be intimidating. “I’m older than you, you punk.”

“Then doesn’t that mean you should know better?” It’s not as if Woojin intended the words to invoke a sense of quiet amongst the crowd that even makes  _him_  nervous, but that’s what happen anyway. Minho’s face turns a dangerous shade of purple, as if he’s trying not to choke on his own breath (which isn’t even possible, but whatever), and no warning comes when he swings his right hook at Woojin’s jaw.

Inwardly thanking all those dance workshops he’d gone to for his reflexes, Woojin jumps out of its way at the precise timing, even if the flashes from the cameras taking pictures invade the corners of his vision. “That’s not fair!” He says, rather lamely, considering Ha Minho’s never had a record for being  _fair_  anyway. But his opponent doesn’t address Woojin’s concern, instead aiming a knee at Woojin’s rib, and not wanting to be left completely defenseless, Woojin rams his side into Minho’s build, sending him careening to the dumpster right next to the lockers.

Minho stands up shakily after falling down, clutching tenderly at his tailbone, and stares at Woojin with murderous intent. An animalistic snarl leaps out of his mouth. “Park Woojin, you’re  _dead_.”

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:**  Track 1 of CD 1 –  _[My Shot](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NwlBxYyjrqM)_.

Sitting in the principal’s office in the middle of his third period isn’t what Woojin had envisioned, but then again, he hadn’t envisioned getting into a fight with Ha Minho this morning, either; the most that Woojin had planned was to half-ass his way through his mathematics quiz, maybe get the person in front of him to help him a bit, or maybe he’d crane his neck a  _little_  to the left, just to get a sneak of someone else’s answers—though knowing Woojin (and his luck, or lack thereof), it’d most likely be the latter, considering the person who sits in front of him gives him a sneer every time Woojin so far as asks him to have small talk in the middle of class. 

“What do you have to say for yourself?” The principal of their school, Miss Kwon, is a lady in her thirties whose visuals doesn’t lose to the celebrities Woojin sees on television. The rumors say she used to be a model before she became a teacher, but nobody’s ever found anything incriminating about the rumor, so eventually, it faded into one of the school’s urban legends. She is, however, as terrifying as she is pretty; so even seeing her lean back on her swiveling chair behind the maple desk that holds her computer and other school related files is enough to drive Woojin’s thoughts into dangerous territory. Or, in other words, he’s already thinking up of his own punishments before Miss Kwon even says anything about it—maybe he’ll even be  _expelled_ , which is a worse case scenario, because what else would be worse for him than being expelled? But then again, the most Woojin had done was break Ha Minho’s nose, and does that guarantee expulsion? (Damn it, he should’ve read the school’s rulebook one more time before tossing it to the dumpster!)

“I… did it,” Woojin begins, nearly stumbling over the second word of his sentence. Miss Kwon catches the misstep and sends him a look that would have any man quivering in fear, Woojin not exempted. “Because he.” The punished student halts to a stop in the middle of his sentence, needing the pause to take a moment to breathe, and direct his eyes at the wall behind Miss Kwon instead of the teacher herself. “He was being rude,” Woojin summarizes.

To be fair, it isn’t as if he’s  _not_  telling the truth, because Woojin has almost no reason to attack Ha Minho—the both of them have different social circles, Woojin (before today) was never hurt by the delinquent’s antics, either because he was too invisible or he was just too uninteresting. Woojin would like to think it’s because he’s scary enough and can stand up for himself, but he knows the whole scary look he has going for him? Nobody believes that anymore ever since the whole school caught him swatting a fly in the middle of a presentation and, after the fly dropped to the ground, resumed to mourn over the foreign fly’s death—though that event occurred in English class, in a place like high school, word spreads fast.

“Is that your only reason?” Miss Kwon sighs, and rubs at her temples with her thumb and index finger. Woojin shifts in his seat, feeling uncomfortable no matter how padded the seat is. “The witnesses all said the fight started out of nowhere.”

“That’s because they didn’t hear the conversation!” Woojin splutters, nearly getting out of his seat before realizing who exactly it is that he’s speaking with; embarrassingly enough, however, he’d been half-way getting out of his seat before the realization, causing him to sit back down underneath Miss Kwon’s half-judging, half-amused stare. “Miss Kwon, you know that Ha Minho’s reputation at school isn’t even the best—”

“I understand that completely, but neither is yours.” That’s not something Woojin can argue with, so he wisely shuts his mouth, no matter how much he wants to defend himself. While Ha Minho is infamous for being (and Woojin’s paraphrasing) ‘a prickly bastard’, Woojin isn’t infamous for being a bully. Woojin is infamous for the thing that causes the most discord within the student body’s public opinion: pranks. On one hand, some consider it as ‘vandalism’ and ‘hooligan tomfoolery’, but there are a few others who see it oppositely, considering it as something to ‘lighten up the school’s situation’, some even saying that if the pranks aren’t harming anyone, there’s no need to view them so negatively—personally, Woojin just does the pranks because he’s bored, and there’s nothing else he’s supposed to do at school. Spend all the time and effort he puts into his pranks for studying? Who even  _does_  that?

“Ha Minho has already received his punishment,” Miss Kwon finally says, resting both her fingers on the surface of the table. With her eyes fixed solely on Woojin, he feels the urge to stand up straight, instead of slouching the way he has been doing for the past few minutes. “And, in accordance to the school’s rules, you will receive yours, too.”

If it were any other teacher, say, the substitute teacher Mr. Im, Woojin would put up a fight; but, considering this is Miss Kwon and she scares Woojin half to death, the student nods numbly, and stares down at his intertwined hands. “I understand,” he mutters, sullen.

“According to this.” Miss Kwon opens the rulebook that Woojin has only skimmed through once in his entire life, and his eyes widen when he realize how thick he is. No wonder some people think the school has a rule for  _everything_ , and there was once a case where a student received a designated punishment for chewing gum loudly in class. (A rule for  _that_ , imagine.) “For violence in school, first offense, your punishment will be voluntary community service and extra hours in a volunteer program predetermined by the teacher,” she actually starts sounding amused by the end of her sentence, a thoughtful hum that Woojin doesn’t like the sound of coming from her lips.

Voluntary community service is something Woojin figures he could do; there’s nothing difficult about getting in a few extra hours cleaning the pool down the block from his house, or he could ask his parents to ask his uncle to take him in as a volunteer for his animal shelter. Easy peasy, lemon squeasy. “What’s that about the… determined… thing?” Woojin sounds his very coherent, easily understood question.

Miss Kwon snaps her fingers together. “Ah!” Her eyes gleam with something that Woojin can’t place, but the only thing he feels about this is dread, like a sudden cold has doused over his bones, drenching him with the aftertaste of ice. “I have the perfect program in mind. I’ll be assigning you to join the theatre club, just in time for our school’s upcoming musical,” she says, gleeful and thrilled.

Woojin doesn’t share her sentiments. He sits there, completely frozen, eyes gauged so wide one would think they might comically fall out of their sockets any time soon. “Musical?” When he speaks, his voice breaks, and without a doubt, Woojin knows he’s been  _broken_.

“Yes, musical.” If Miss Kwon is aware of Woojin’s suffering, she never lets it show, simply giving him a megawatt smile. “Let’s see… the club has a meeting tomorrow after school, and you can make it, right? Of course you can. It’s the order of the principal after all, isn’t it?”

In his head, Woojin dares to say it sounds like dictatorship, but the real life version of Woojin nods, still dazed. And horrified—not very mildly, either.

“Right…” Though, Woojin doesn’t even realize the words have tumbled (against his own will) out of his lips until Miss Kwon sends him a beam.

“Good. I do hope I won’t be disappointed in you. Now run off to class,” she shoos him off, and Woojin doesn’t even feel his legs as he lifts himself from his seat, and trudges out of the office. The only thing he’s aware of is the word  _theatre_ ; the extent of Woojin’s ability to perform is to dance, and even that’s more of a hobby than anything.  _Stupid, you should’ve asked her to get you to be the basketball team’s ball boy or something,_  he berates himself in his head, so deeply rooted in his thoughts he finds himself bumping into a locker.

The metal is cool and hard against the tender skin of his head, and Woojin’s eyes shut in pain, a grimace curling his lips. A soft groan escapes from his mouth, and his reflex is to rub slightly on the affected area, grimace deepening upon feeling the beginnings of a bruise. “Fuck. This just isn’t my day, isn’t it?” He grumbles to himself, and uses the palm of his hand to give a solid hit to the guilty locker. Whose locker it is, exactly, he has no clue.

Though with every passing moment Woojin spends brooding is another moment lost in class, something pulls him to  _stay_  where he is, moping like the teenager he is. What does Woojin do in classes, anyway? He sleeps through most of them, and when he isn’t asleep, he finds himself being the center of attention, and not in a good way—the teachers call him out, ask him questions he doesn’t know the answers to even when someone else is literally  _raising their hand_  in the front. It makes him wonder why he even stays in—

“U-Uh, excuse me?”

Woojin whirls around, evidently startled with a jump, and the back of his head hits the locker  _again_. The pain registers quickly, and his fingers grasp the back of his head, feeling a lump. This just isn’t his day.

The person who’d caused Woojin his second (or perhaps more, if he counted all the bruises he’d received after his fight with Ha Minho just this morning) head injury is familiar with his thick lips, legs with the length twice of Woojin’s, lanky arms and bony elbows. Gangly would be the perfect word to describe the youth who stands in front of him, holding on to the straps of his backpack closely, shoulders hunching in on himself as he does. Woojin causes himself (even more of) a headache trying to think of his name, but he knows who the other is, having been the reason he’d even gotten into a fight this morning.

“Oh. It’s you,” Woojin acknowledges, though doesn’t make a move; the only move he’s doing is nursing the back of his head, wincing whenever he prods too hard. Unfortunately, that tends to occur, seeing as Woojin might be the least gentle person Woojin himself knows. (He can still remember the time he’d accidentally crumbled a cookie in half when all he’d been doing was a woeful attempt to divide them by half.)

“Thank you,” he says, and Woojin notes the thickness of his voice; as if it’s being obscured by something. An accent, maybe. “Thanks for helping me,” this time, he says it in English, and Woojin retreats his hand from the back of his head to snap his fingers together as the pieces all fall into place.

“Ah!” The other boy actually steps back for a moment, eyes wide, as if he’s afraid Woojin going off about him at any moment. More than funny, it’s a little sad, and even Woojin finds himself feeling a pang of sympathy. “You’re the foreign exchange student?” Though the person he’s conversing with takes a few moments to comprehend Woojin’s words, he perks up at the word ‘foreign exchange student’, so Woojin guesses that’s when he processes the meaning behind Woojin’s words.

“Guanlin,” he introduces himself, and bends his back into a stiff bow. Woojin, a little at loss at the show of formality, awkwardly pats Guanlin’s back twice. Guanlin stiffens, and freezes in his bow. That’s when Woojin withdraws his hand as if it’s on fire, and pushes it deep inside the pocket of his pants.

“You don’t have to do that,” he hastens, and makes a show of raising his palm, signaling Guanlin to stand up. Guanlin gets the hint, but when he stands, his back is so straight it makes Woojin wonder if Guanlin had been disciplined at the military. “Be more relaxed around me,” he requests, quite unsure how to proceed; he isn’t used to having people start conversations with him, much less being respectful towards him. “Don’t you have classes or something?” Woojin ends up asking, although the question isn’t uncalled for, considering the bell signaling lunch break will only ring in half an hour from now.

“I asked to go to the bathroom.” Almost with guilt, Guanlin shows Woojin the bathroom pass he’d been hiding behind his back. Woojin nearly grins. “But I think the teacher will find out if I’ve been gone for this long,” he ends, but sounds more confused than he is ashamed of lying about going to the bathroom.

“Then shouldn’t you be going back?” Guanlin seems to mistake Woojin’s genuine question as him telling Guanlin (in short) to fuck off, judging by the way his eyes fall like a kicked puppy. “I didn’t mean that you  _have_  to leave—” Woojin attempts to correct himself as soon as he sees Guanlin’s demeanor shift, from nervous to straight up depressing.

“I think I’ll get in trouble though,” the foreign exchange student ends up saying, dropping his eyes to the floor, arms hanging dejectedly on his sides. “But I just wanted to thank you for earlier. It’s the first time someone stood up for me,” he finishes his sentence in English, and Woojin needs a couple of moments to translate the words in his head, but he gets the gist of it.

“You mean you’ve never had someone defend you before?” Woojin asks, glancing at Guanlin with worry. Though this is the first conversation he’s ever had with Guanlin, judging by first impressions, there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with him; nothing out of place, at least, maybe with the slightest exception of the crooked styling of his tie. But there shouldn’t be anything  _wrong_  about that, considering half the student body doesn’t even wear their ties anymore, everyone losing them sometime during the second semester of their first year—Woojin included.

Guanlin shakes his head, eyes still transfixed by the floor. At some point, Woojin even glances down to see if there’s anything interesting down there, but finds his eyes greeted by the sight of a regular floor. “No… I guess I’ve been doing something wrong,” he mumbles, never once lifting his sight. Woojin can feel his heart clench at the sight; to him, nobody deserves to feel that way, especially when (to his knowledge) the most Guanlin has done at school is exist.

“That’s not right,” he declares loudly, voice nearly echoing in the empty hallway. Guanlin startles at the sound of Woojin’s voice, shoulders jumping at the raise of the other’s volume. “I don’t know why people pick on you, but you shouldn’t think that you’re doing something wrong when I’ve never heard any bad rumors about you.” Maybe that isn’t the pick-me-up Guanlin needs, because coming from Woojin, it isn’t as if that statement weighs heavy; he doesn’t have too many friends at school, either, and Woojin’s primary sources of information are the conversations he can’t help but overhear sometimes being discussed by his classmates. But, still; they might talk about Lee Daehwi and Bae Jinyoung, or they might talk about the scandalous relationship between their music teacher and another teacher Woojin can’t remember, for the life of him, the name of—but he’s never heard of them talking about the foreign exchange student, save for the occasional pointed fingers, whenever someone wonders who the student is.

When Guanlin picks up his eyes, Woojin feels panic rise in his throat when he realizes that Guanlin’s eyes are  _watery_. There are a fair deal of things Woojin is prepared for: a zombie apocalypse (there’s a reason why he always survives those scenario games  _and_  has a vast collection of zombie-related movies, enough for him to know the tips and tricks of surviving an apocalypse should it ever occur), the disbandment of his favourite bands, and the possibility of his crush since middle school already having a boyfriend. But, what he definitely is  _not_  prepared for is to have someone cry on him, and that’s exactly the moment when he finds his palms clamming with sweat caused by his own nerves.

“Please don’t cry,” he pleads, holding both his palms in front of Guanlin in a sad attempt of consolation. “I get that things have been hard on you but if you want to cry could you  _please_  not do it now—”

“I’m sorry,” Guanlin says, and though his voice sounds as if he’s choking back on something, he wipes his sleeves over his eyes, and a few moments later, his eyes go back to being dry. Woojin lets out a breath he doesn’t know he’d even been holding. “It’s just that, no one’s ever said that to me,” he adds, in clumsy Korean, but Woojin appreciates his effort. His English skills, after all, are despairingly limited.

“Well, now someone has.” Heart to hearts are far from being Woojin’s expertise, so he just says whatever’s on his mind, no matter how clipped and clumsily glued together the words are. “So don’t… Don’t cry, okay?”

Guanlin nods, looking so serious Woojin has to bite back a laugh. “Okay,” he agrees. “Did you get a punishment because of me?” He resumes to ask, his voice lowering and shifting into guilty tonality.

Maybe someone would lie, but Woojin doesn’t necessarily see the point in lying when Guanlin could easily find out through other people’s words, considering how fast news travels; so, instead of denying and giving a half-assed excuse for his visit to the principal that further resulted to his now lumpy and sensitive head, Woojin nods. “Yeah.” Seeing Guanlin frown once more, Woojin quickly adds, “but it’s nothing bad. Just community service and the theatre club—trust me, things could be worse.”

The other opens his mouth, presumably to say something, but clamps it shut after a second or two of awkwardly gaping at air. “I’m sorry,” he says, at last, and Woojin waves off the apology. “I’m going back to class,” he ends the conversation abruptly, turning on his heel and walking back in the direction of his classroom. From his vision, Woojin notes that Guanlin looks funny when he walks, as if he’s still not used to walking on such tall legs; but then again, it isn’t as if Woojin can relate.

He finds himself back where he’d started: standing alone in an empty hallway, though now his headache isn’t simply caused by the locker, with the addition of Guanlin and his near tears that almost brought Woojin to shambles.

“Park Woojin, is that you? What are you not doing back in class?” Miss Kwon’s voice is heard clearly, even when she’s at the other end of the hall, and Woojin’s dread settles firmly on his stomach. Before he gets caught and has another sentence added to his current predicament, he sprints away, running like the wind even when he hears her resounding shouts of, “Get back here, Park Woojin!”

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:** Track 2 of CD 1 – _[Take Me or Leave Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iFOvOQ8xLv4)._

The highlight of Woojin’s day is coming into the practice room of the dance club and finding, not only one, but  _three_  members of the club tutting at him with disapproval upon noting his entrance in their classroom, not necessarily small, but small enough to be considered cramped when you consider this is a room meant for dancing. On most occasions, the other members of the dance club wouldn’t bother to spare him their thoughts; but, considering Woojin has just made a name for himself as the one who dared to get in a fight with the school bully (a new record even for the school’s resident prankster, apparently)  _and_  got in trouble twice with the principal—once for said fight and another for skipping class on the very same day—this, apparently, translates to an upgrade for his infamy.

“Look who we have here,” Justin Huang, a student nobody really knows  _why_  is enrolled in a public school when he has enough money to buy an entire block of their neighbourhood, drawls. He’s leaned up against one of the tables, dressed up in a black jumpsuit Woojin is certain would cost his entire house. “If it isn’t  _the_  Park Woojin.”

Woojin ignores the other, making his way almost dutifully towards his designated spot of the room: at the very corner of it, small and uncomfortable enough that he can smell the sweat coming from the indoor court right next door, where the basketball club holds a meeting at the exact same time as the dance club. He’s gotten used to it though, and doesn’t even mind, even when he’s forced to lean against the wall, where most of the players’ stench rakes through the air. He closes his eyes in a meaningless attempt to tune out the closest thing he has to high school friends, which, now that he considers it, is nowhere short of pathetic.

“Don’t ignore me, man,” Justin repeats himself, and Woojin can hear the shuffling of the shoes in the floor, as well as the telltale footsteps of the younger. When he feels the temperature rising in front of him, he knows Justin is right in front of him even without opening his eyes. Justin’s current spot, after all, is blocking the air conditioner. “Hey.” If Woojin were to guess, he’d assume the other boy had just waved his hands in front of Woojin’s face.

As the smallest seed of annoyance begins to prosper, Woojin cracks an eye open, and true to his previous guess, Justin’s invading his personal space. Woojin would back away, if it weren’t for the fact he was  _already_  backed to the furthest spot the wall could offer. Any more and he’d only hurt his head more, and that isn’t what he’s looking to accomplish, considering the wounds he’d suffered from both the fight and his own locker hitting habits. “What do you want, Justin,” he flat out intones, keeping his lips tucked into a straight line.

“I just wanted to congratulate you for amping up your rep,” mutters Justin, almost sulkily. Wait, no.  _Certainly_  sulkily, if the pout is anything to go by. “I thought you were going to be stuck forever as the boy who did the pranks and had no friends. Now you’re the boy who does pranks, has no friends,  _and_  is the transfer kid’s savior!” Whether Justin is being genuine or sarcastic, Woojin can’t tell; either because Justin Huang is just someone he’d always doubt the sincerity of, or maybe it’s just because Woojin is dense, when it comes to these matters—not his own words, but from his own  _mother_ , of all people.

“It’s heroic, what you did,” pipes up one of the other members of the dance club, a freshman named Samuel, who now looks at Woojin with one could only place as stars in his eyes. Frankly, it gives Woojin chills, because if anyone deserves that look, it’s anyone  _but_  him. “You were so cool out there! I saw the video on Snapchat, and when I saw it, I went, ‘oh my God!’” He recalls the tale with enthusiasm, making big gestures with both of his hands.

At the very least, it’s nice to have someone hyping him up; at the most, Woojin knows the hero worship is temporary, and will blow over by tomorrow morning. Not that he’s thinking this  _because_  he doesn’t want to be hero worshipped—everyone likes a little ego trip sometimes, right?—but because this is always the routine when the students of the school figures out his pranks; eyes following him down the hallway, maybe a few pats on the back, and more than a couple whispers. But by the time morning comes, the hype would have died, and people would’ve moved on to the next grand thing: for example, the scandalous relationship between the school’s orchestra teacher and the theatre club’s drama coach.

“Not to mention, I never would’ve thought the first person to stand up to Ha Minho would’ve been you!” Another member of the club adds, even pausing whatever she’d been doing to look up from her phone to look at Woojin with approval. Oddly touching, considering as the only female member of the dance club, Kim Yerim would rather spend her time in the dance club texting her friends rather than voluntarily converse with the boys. Any other time and she wouldn’t have given Woojin the time of her day. “You’ve always seemed so…” Yerim struggles to find the correct word, pursing her lips together in deep thought, “quiet! That’s the word. Like, we all know you’re the ones behind a prank, but you never seemed to be the type to fight people.”

Glancing between the three who’d taken their times to talk to him (and what precious time it was they’d wasted, Woojin figures), the youth warily smiles. “Thanks, I guess,” he says, almost suspiciously, as if the three would retract their statements all of a sudden and yell out ‘sike!’ in synchronization. Though it’d be the first, Woojin’s always figured if anyone were to pull something like that on him, it’d be the dance club; though none of them were necessarily friends with him, never going out of their way to talk to him or include him in their conversations, they wouldn’t pass up the chance to give him some hell. (For this, Woojin knows the exact reason: he’d taken the lead dancer position this year, although last year the spot was a senior’s, and said senior ruled the club with an iron fist; it was easy to persuade the other kids of the dance club into pulling one on Woojin whenever they had the chance to.)

“You’re thanking me for telling you that you’re the type to fight people?” Yerim laughs, and proceeds to detach herself from the conversation, going back to her phone and her friends; squealing over a picture, probably something from Instagram. Woojin’s Instagram dash is mostly filled with Yerim’s updates, and it wouldn’t be too far off the mark to assume that as the application the female dancer has grown a liking to these days.

Justin doesn’t move an inch from his spot less than thirty centimeters away from Woojin’s face, remaining unaware of the sweat that’s begun to trail down Woojin’s forehead from the proximity; nothing personal, but Woojin doesn’t feel safe whenever someone invades his personal space—right now, Justin’s not exactly doing anything to fix that, although Woojin is certain if the wealthy student had noticed the sweat, he would’ve jumped away by now, maybe swat at Woojin with tissues out of his bag. (Or a handkerchief, considering Justin is loaded, and from what Woojin has seen in the movies, rich people tend to like handkerchiefs. Ones with their names engraved in gold or any other material that costs more than Woojin’s phone.)

“Say, do you think you’ll start doing the beating people up thing more often?” Justin asks, eyes glinting with a calculative edge that, frankly, terrifies Woojin.

“Probably not,” Woojin answers, only honesty gracing his voice. It isn’t as if he hadn’t gained anything from defending Guanlin, but it’s more of the fact that Woojin’s mother would likely have a heart attack the moment she figured out her son was not only a notorious prankster, but a fighter, too; she’d have his head, and that’s something Woojin’s trying to stay away from. Not that he’s all that successful, considering the amount of days of the year he’d been grounded for almost every single prank she found out about. “Fighting’s not my thing, Justin.”

“Huh. Shame,” Justin says, and finally walks back to his previous spot with his gaggle of friends; it’s only then that Woojin notices how quiet the room has become, everyone watching him and Justin’s exchange with shamelessly showcased curiosity. “I could’ve used you in my gang.”

“…You have a gang?—wait, never mind, I don’t even want to know.” All of a sudden, Woojin remembers all the rumors that circulated during the first few months of Justin’s presence at their school, ranging from his father’s connections to the mafia to his father  _being_  the godfather of the mafia. Those days were wild, and Woojin spent most of them avoiding the rumored boy as much as possible; maybe that’s the reason why they’re not close, but then again, it isn’t as if Woojin would’ve ever been good friends with Justin. Sometimes, people just don’t click as friends, and that’s the sad case that is Justin and his’ nonexistent friendship.

“I’m  _building_  one,” Justin easily corrects, never missing a beat. “It’s going to be great.”

“Cool…?” Woojin trails off, completely lost whether his option is to egg on the possible makings of a crime lord, or stay quiet. Evidently, he tries to do something in between. “Where’s the teacher?” He looks around the room, filled with students, but void of any signs of adult life. Or young adult, if that’s what a college student with connections to their principal constitutes as.

“Dunno,” Yerim says, offhanded as she continues to play with her phone. “I might ditch soon. Want to come with?”

This is another first. Justin elbows Woojin, not very subtly, and Woojin rolls his eyes at the juvenile noises being made bythe prepubescent boys that make up their dance team. “No thanks,” Woojin declines, although the words taste a little strange on his mouth, mostly because he’s never received an offer to hang out with anyone; much less have the chance to reject one.

“Are you sure?” Yerim peeks up from her gadget. Her eyes are a little droopy under the continued strain from exposureto the screen’s light. “We’re going to watch that new movie in the theater,” she adds up the offer, wriggling her brows suggestively. “It should be fun. Unless horror’s not your thing.”

“I’ll pass,” Woojin asserts, feeling uncomfortable under the stares of the club room. He feels like a circus attraction, and not in a good way—far from it. (See,  _this_  is why he, despite his pranks, prefers being just another face in the crowd, rather than ending up as someone to ‘look out for’; the societal pressure is enormous.)

Yerim’s lip curls into a frown, as if she isn’t used to people rejecting her offers, and to be honest, that’s most likely the case. People like prankster, socially awkward Park Woojin are used to getting rejected, but someone bubbly, pretty, and popular like Kim Yerim isn’t. “Suit yourself, then.”

Dodging the eyes of everyone else in the room, Woojin eyes the door, and takes the quickest route there. “I’ll go, I guess,” he says, and pushes the door open with a light kick. It doesn’t protest as it creaks open, and the hallways are empty, classes having long been dismissed and the others either at home or in their individual club rooms, doing club activity the way Woojin’s supposed to be doing, were he more responsible and cared more about his attendance record.

Nobody makes a move to stop him, no matter how much spotlight he’s received underneath his ten minutes of fame. When Woojin skips, then it’s expected people will let him skip; going through the trouble finding him when he doesn’t want to be found is far from worth it, and the last few people have gone on a wild goose chase throughout their city’s establishments, only to return empty handed. (Woojin was actually just in the school’s broom closet, because at least the janitor is on civil terms with him, and oddly enough, nobody thought to look there.)

Though he encounters a few students as he breezes his way through the hallway, no one lifts their eyes to meet his, either busy or not desiring any contact with the renegade. Which is fine, suits Woojin and his solitary nature perfectly, because he doesn’t have any need for friends. He’s gone through the last few years of school without any real ones, and he’ll be fine without them; it’s just a few more years to go until he can graduate, see the world, and surround himself with people who have similar beliefs. High school friends are a gamble. You might need to compromise more than what you’ll gain return, and Woojin knows people who have given up everything just to fit in; he’s seen the shell of themselves they turn out to be, and that’s the last thing he wants for himself.

This is how Woojin sees it: if he has to spend a few years alone in return of not losing the heart of himself, then so be it. Conforming to the high school expectations of ‘fitting in’ and being a part of the ‘in crowd’ has never been a part of Woojin’s agenda, anyway.

His bike is untouched in the parking lot, and Woojin easily dismantles it, and revs up his bicycle; squirming slightly to squish himself comfortably in the small seat (he’s been using the same bike since his last year of elementary school, which is fine, really! It’s a little small, but it’s functional, and Woojin would rather be known as the kid with the small bike than being one of the causes of his family’s bankruptcy) before taking off. The ride home takes him through the streets, although the route he chooses specifically, the one that goes around the school and passes by the local deli instead of choosing the one near the mall, is more on the quiet side; only pedestrians and a few odd cars, but the air is fresher than the heart of the city, and Woojin finds himself putting down his guard as he lets the breeze shift through his head, late afternoon cold slicing his cheeks.

_Five Parks_  is a respectable enough establishment, occupying the lot that once held a motel with ghostly rumors; the rumors are false, though, and this much Woojin knows because he has spent a majority of his life there, and the closest encounter he’s had to an extraterrestrial being is the time he had his cousin Moonbok stay over and in the middle of the night, he caught Moonbok taking some food from the fridge, and in a sleepy haze, Woojin had thought of Moonbok as a ghost; conveniently forgetting his cousin’s then long hair. (Is his hair still long now? Woojin hasn’t caught up with him in a while, but Moonbok looked nice with his long hair. He rocked it, and if he still has it, he probably  _still_  rocks it.) The interior is neither modern nor traditional, but it  _is_  comfortable, and Woojin parks his bike at the back; the two-storey building boasts both an acclaimed restaurant and a house, and conveniently, both are his. Well, his family’s, but. His too, more or less.

“I’m back early!” Woojin makes his presence known as he enters through the front entrance (the one that leads directly to the sitting area of the restaurant, where he spends most of his time at home in, helping his family with their customers as his way of doing chores), and finds himself greeted by the sight of more or less an empty restaurant, with only three customers seated on different tables. On a regular day, Woojin would categorize a full house when the restaurant is stacked full, but considering a majority of their customers are high school students, during school days, they never get many customers; having most of their demographic busy, and all, case proven by the adults at the restaurant who are most definitely  _not_  high school students.

His mother, beauty nonplussed by the weary lines that mar her face, showing her process of aging, raises her hand in acknowledgement, back turned from him; she’s currently settling down a tray in front of a patron, and that’s the closest thing to a ‘welcome home’ that Woojin receives.

“I’ll help out in a bit!” Woojin jogs towards the kitchen, where behind it, stands a door that leads to the living area of the building. He throws his backpack on the floor without hazard, and slams the entrance closed, before snatching a spare apron from the hanger near the staff’s toilet. It’s a loose fit, and he needs to double tie it to ensure the black fabric won’t come undone during the most of what he does, but once he’s all well and ready, he takes a notepad from the cabinet, pockets a pencil, and goes to the main dining area.

Once he’s there, he expects to be thrown at a customer immediately. What he doesn’t expect is for his mother to fix him a killer glare that would bring an actual assassin to shame, and usher him towards one of the empty booths; she takes a seat, primly, and Woojin needs no one to tell him to slide onto the seat right across her. He doesn’t have a good feeling about this.

“What’s this about, mom?” Woojin begins the conversation, and steels himself to meet her eyes; although they might seem calm, Woojin knows her enough to see the underlying fury, and what makes it more terrifying is the fact that she seems so composed.

“I received a call from your principal.” Just from those words, Woojin can tell where the conversation is going. He resists the urge to hide his face in the palm of his hands, because he was raised better than to be a coward, really. No matter how tempting the prospect might seem. (And it is a very tempting one.) “You got into a fight.”

Woojin flinches, but makes no move to confirm, nor deny his mother’s accusation. He’s as good as dead, now, because his mother has succumbed to a tone of hers that he likes to dub, ‘I’m Ten Minutes Away From Doing Serious Damage Unless You Have A Good Explanation.’ The name should be as good of an explanation as any, although Woojin needs a shorter name for it, because ITMAFDSDUYHAGE is really,  _really_  difficult to say both out loud, and in his head.

“What were you thinking, Woojin?” The raw disappointment is enough to make Woojin regret his decision, though only for a moment; because no matter how pissed his mom might be, he’d  _saved_  someone. He would do it again in a heartbeat. Saying that, however, might not be the wisest course of action, unless he fancies being grounded for life. “Picking fights—that’s not like you. I know about your pranks.” Of course she does, because she’s his  _mom_ , and no matter how much Woojin wants to hide it, his mom will always know. “But you’ve never hurt anyone before. Do you know the extent of the boy’s wounds?” she continues, her voice grave.

“… No.”

“Would you like to know?”

“Not really,” he says, almost in shame, but not quite. Ha Minho had it coming, and one way or another, he would’ve received that beating anyway; Woojin just sped up the process.

His mother sighs, but makes no move to go against his wishes. She reaches across the table, and places his palm in hers. Woojin feels like a kid again, especially when she begins to rub her thumb in slow, aimless circles on his open palm. “Woojin,” she begins, although her voice lacks any of the disappointment that’d been there before. Woojin continues to stare at her readily, taking in the curve of her brows, and the soft smile that has replaced its previous cold, hard line. She looks younger like this, the wrinkled lines on her face fading away, in a matter that isn’t unlike the way someone always looks more peaceful when they’re asleep. “I’m proud of you.”

“I’m sorry mom, I—huh? Proud of me?” Woojin stutters, and his jaw goes slack.

“I asked for the full story. Your principal told me about the boy you had a fight with—and he’s a bully, isn’t he?” At Woojin’s nod, her smile grows broader. “Good. You did the right thing. I knew you wouldn’t have fought just about anyone; I drilled at least  _some_  manners into you. But, this doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. Remember, you still have your obligations to the… whatever club it was that’s become your punishment.”

He returns his mother’s smile, albeit in a shyer, more withdrawn manner than hers. Most parents would enforce a strict punishment onto their children for getting into a fight with one of his schoolmates, and he doesn’t have a flicker of doubt that his mother would’ve done exactly that, had he gotten involved with someone who was more along the lines of Lai Guanlin than Ha Minho. Woojin knows he doesn’t have the gall to do that, though, and hopefully, he never will; there aren’t a lot of things he’s explicitly proud of, but if he had to boast  _something_  about himself, it’d be his heart. It’s in the right place, for the most part, and all of that is no small thanks to his upbringing.

“Okay. I’ll do the theatre thing, and, I love you.” Though he’s aware that there might be some who’d feel shy about saying this up front to their parents, Woojin doesn’t hesitate when he utters the three words, meeting his mother’s kind gaze with an earnest one of his own. Woojin would take a bullet for his mother, no matter how much she might terrify him sometimes; but then again, she’s only ever terrifying when he gets out of line, so maybe, he should be grateful about her mode of destruction. It always does the job to snap him out of whatever had pushed him to do something stupid. “And I think that customer might be getting grumpy.” He discreetly points (with the unused napkin hiding his finger) at the direction of a frowning patron, having long finished her food, and his mother follows his line of sight.

“Right,” she breathes, and stands up, smoothing down her skirt. “I have to go get that. I love you too, Woojin.” The woman hugs his head in her arms for a quick moment before getting to her customer, and works with scary efficiency at taking away her dishes, offering a few apologies for the tardiness. Even in the way she moves, she’s graceful, and doesn’t let any movements go to waste; she’s an amazing woman, and Woojin is so,  _so_  glad to have her as his mother. He doesn’t know if anyone else would be able to handle him the way she does, because he knows he’s not the easiest child (which still stands true for now); wasn’t easy to raise, what with his honesty that often caught him trouble with the other children, and it’s not like he’s dumb to the fact his mother used to be the laughingstock amongst the other mothers of their neighborhood for having a son who didn’t know how to read until his fifth birthday. But she never gave up on him, not even once, and even  _fought_  for the rights to look after him when the divorce came; she didn’t let the loss of monetary support to stop her, either, getting onto her feet almost immediately and starting up the restaurant. She’s the strongest person Woojin knows—among men, among women, among everything and everyone else.

There’s nothing Woojin can do that’ll be able to repay every single thing she’s done for him, but he can at least try to make things easier; that’s why he finds it easier to think about his upcoming days dressed in drapes (or whatever it is that theatre kids seem to wear), because it’s for  _her_. That’s the only reason he needs.

He’s in the middle of rearranging the toothpicks when the doorbell chimes, signaling the arrival of a new customer. Noting that his mother is occupied with her own share of patrons, Woojin makes good use of his worker’s apron, and leaves his table empty; the only sign of his presence left behind the opened box of toothpicks.

“Welcome to Five Parks, are you dining in?” Woojin doesn’t even realize who he’s talking to until all he’s greeted with is silence, and Woojin takes a real look at the customer; good thing he’s got good balance, or else he would’ve tripped over his own feet at the sight of Lai Guanlin standing in front of the restaurant’s entrance, still wearing his school uniform, hands hugging the straps of his backpack. Though a question remains on the tip of Woojin’s tongue, he needs to be professional, so he does what he usually does when someone he knows from school comes to the establishment; he acts like he doesn’t know them, and they’re just another nameless customer he might never see again. “Table for one?”

For a moment, Guanlin just stands still, eyes shifting around as if he’s sizing up the place. It doesn’t really make Woojin feel any less startled, no matter how much time keeps adding up from the initial moment he’d discovered the younger in the restaurant, because he’d expected his interaction with Guanlin earlier to be his first and last. Not a slight against Guanlin, because Woojin’s sure he’s a nice person, even though he nearly made Woojin panic back there with the near onslaught of tears. It’s more along the lines of Guanlin’s sudden retreat earlier that caused Woojin to conclude that his interaction with Lai Guanlin was limited to what happened earlier, and only that. He never expected the transfer student to show up in his restaurant, but Woojin is getting ahead of himself. Guanlin might just be here for the food, completely unawares of Woojin’s ties to the place until now; and, now that Woojin gives  _that_  a second thought, it seems like the most plausible option. Why else would Guanlin be here anyway?

“Uh,” Woojin says, because he’s not sure how to put it in polite words, but he’s going to need Guanlin to sit down and order something, or stand up and order something then leave, or get out. Harsh, maybe, but that’s how business works. “Are you going to order anything?” In the end, he decides to go with that, and that’s enough to snap Guanlin back into action.

“Right!” Guanlin nearly shouts, and Woojin cringes. At least none of the customers seem to care; the most reaction he’s getting is a raised brow or two, but nothing else. “I want a table, please. For one.” That’s all it takes to spur Woojin back into waiter mode, and he leads Guanlin to the bar area, where none of the stools are occupied.

“Feel free to choose where to sit. I’ll come back with your menu in a bit.” He leaves Guanlin to it, and takes a menu from the counter. When he gets back, Guanlin is swiveling around his stool, the sight both comical and somehow heartwarming. (Woojin must be getting sentimental.) “Here you go.” As soon as the menu is placed on the table, Guanlin picks it up, and his nose digs into the material as he reads through the listing. “You don’t have to read it  _that_  closely.”

Guanlin blushes. “I know, the words are really small, though.” That’s enough to make Woojin keep quiet, remembering Guanlin’s still improving Korean skills. Maybe the small font hadn’t been that necessary, after all. “I think I’ll go with the sandwich.”

“Which sandwich? We’ve got a bunch,” Woojin says, biting down on his lip to keep himself from laughing. Not out of spite, or because he wants to laugh  _at_  Guanlin, but it’s just amusing how the younger had specified it as simply ‘sandwich’ when they’ve got an entire submenu dedicated to them.

Soon enough, Guanlin realizes his mistake, and by now, his cheeks are as red as the tomatoes proudly displayed as one of the pictures on the menu. “Sorry,” he stammers, and Woojin shakes his head.

“Don’t worry about it. Here, I’ll help you through it.” Prying the menu from Guanlin’s fingers, Woojin decides to spread it out on the long table, and he points his index finger at the first object of interest. “This one is a classic—a public favourite, I guess.” Truth is, Woojin doesn’t quite know what to call it, but since it’s not a chef recommendation (they don’t really have those, since Woojin’s mother is a firm believer that their restaurant isn’t uptown enough to  _have_  chef recommendations at all) yet still garners a warm reception from their regulars, he’s got to dub it as  _something_. “It’s the Five Parks Sandwich. I know, pretty original name.” Guanlin laughs at the quip, and Woojin hides a smile. It’s easier to interact with Guanlin now that he isn’t trying to hold back his tears.

“You don’t have to tell me about the other ones, I’ll try the one you told me about,” Guanlin decides, right then and there, and Woojin jots down his order with a certain ease that only comes from years of experience. “I want to drink sprite.”

“Iced?”

“Does it taste better with ice?” Guanlin asks, sounding genuinely intrigued. This time, Woojin doesn’t bother to hide his smile.

“I don’t know, it’s your tastebuds,” he chides, but makes sure to add, “personally, I enjoy having some ice with it. It tastes more refreshing.”

“Then I’ll have it iced!” Guanlin announces, nodding with resolution. Woojin writes down Guanlin’s drink in a new line, gives it a once over, and nods.

“Alright, wait around ten minutes, approximately.”

Inside the kitchen, there’s only one chef working at the moment, considering today is a weekday; the restaurant (read: Woojin’s mother) is stingy, and only has a total of two chefs employed under the restaurant’s name. It’s all because both her and Woojin help out in the kitchen, too, so they don’t necessarily  _need_  many people to work with them. Quality over quantity, and all that.

“Classic sandwich,” Woojin hollers as soon as he steps within the threshold of the kitchen, and goes to the cooler to take out a bottle of sprite. He pours the drink into an empty glass, and adds in a few cubes of ice. “This isn’t too little or too much, right?” He holds up the drink for inspection.

Sejeong, the chef, momentarily pauses her work on the sandwich to peer at the drink in Woojin’s hold. “That looks fine,” she dismisses, and gets back to work, but not without adding, “Woojin, you sure are sounding like you’re trying to impress someone.”

“It’s not like that!” Woojin turns a dark shade of red, bristles, and power walks out of the kitchen. It’s really  _not_  like that—Guanlin might be good looking, and Woojin might find him cute, but it doesn’t translate to anything in  _that_  way; after all, sitting on the barstool and gripping onto the table to steady him as he whirls around the room, is leading Woojin to think of Guanlin as an oversized baby more than anything.

He sets down the drink on the table, and Guanlin lifts his eyes from the table, setting his sight on Woojin as he does his work. “Here’s your drink. The food’ll come out in a minute.”

“Thank you,” Guanlin pipes up, with a small smile. “Woojin, uh, could I talk to you for a bit?”

A look around the restaurant shows that there’s no immediate need of him, so Woojin figures, “I guess.” He plops down on the empty stool next to Guanlin’s, and faces the younger. “So, what’s up?”

Guanlin proceeds to take a sip of his drink, makes a face at the coldness that rushes to his throat (at this, Woojin tries not to chuckle), and only then, he begins to speak. “I found out about your punishment.” He looks at his drink, stubbornly, and misses the scrunching of Woojin’s nose. “And—and I felt really bad, so I decided to sign up for the theatre club, too. To keep you company. I mean, I know you might not even want me there, but I figured it’d be nice if you could have at least a friend in there—”

“Breathe, Guanlin,” Woojin interrupts the other in the middle of his tirade, and true to Woojin’s orders, Guanlin breathes. “What do you mean, signing yourself up? You don’t have to. I don’t… I’m not looking for you to repay what happened this morning. I did that for free.”

“But I want to!” There’s a stubborn quality to Guanlin’s voice that wasn’t there just a moment ago, and Woojin isn’t sure how he feels about this development. “Unless you don’t want me there with you,” he adds, although when he meets Woojin’s eyes, all Woojin sees is hope. The kind of hope that makes Woojin’s throat close up, and has a voice in his head groaning,  _I shouldn’t have tried to play hero this morning. Fuck. What have I done_.

“It’s not that I don’t want your company or anything, it’s just unnecessary.” He’s probably doing a terrible job at being pragmatic, judging by the way Guanlin’s face falls. “But,” he sighs, “if you really want to, I guess that’s your decision.”

Something like the sun filters through Guanlin’s dazzling grin, and Woojin has a hard time believing there aren’t any sparkles coming out of the background, just to accentuate the brightness of his smile. “I’ll make sure you’ll have fun in theatre! I mean, it’s the least I could do after all the trouble you went to, but I wasn’t in a part of any extracurriculars yet anyway, so—I killed two birds with one stone!” Guanlin beams, entirely satisfied by his own genius.

“That’s great,” Woojin says, because it is. “Guanlin, I’m not the best company, though.” Understatement of the year, considering if Woojin were any more charming (or had at least the inclination to  _try harder_  at socializing) he might find himself being surrounded by friends instead of whatever it is he has now. Still, it’s not like it would be polite of Woojin to push Guanlin away when the boy is just trying to help, in his own way; Woojin might be a bit of an ass sometimes, but he’s not a full blown jerk, and he still has Guanlin’s own emotions to take into consideration.

“That’s okay.” Guanlin shrugs, like he’d expected Woojin to say it. “If it’s about talking, I can talk for the both of us.”

Woojin makes a face. “It’s not just the talking.” It’s more along the lines of  _everything_.

“Then, I’ll help with that too,” and that’s that. Guanlin is confident, or maybe over-confident, and that much shows from how lax he is, especially after knowing Woojin’s more or less resigned himself to his fate by now. Maybe a day or two hanging around Woojin’s company will be enough to shake him away;that’s what it usually takes.

The bell from the kitchen dings. Sejeong is peeking from the kitchen door, looking between Guanlin and Woojin with something akin to amusement. God, Woojin hopes she’s not getting the wrong idea, because she’s nowhere short of insufferable at times.

“I’m coming,” Woojin calls, and hops off from the stool. He doesn’t spare a second look back at Guanlin when he fetches his order, and avoids Sejeong’s smirk when he enters the kitchen, instead taking the readied plate into his hands, and makes a move to leave almost as soon as he enters; that plan is as good as botched when Sejeong grasps the back of his apron, holding him back from leaving. “What?” Woojin grits out, although he’s not facing Sejeong when he does.

“Don’t mess this up, Woojin,” Sejeong says softly, and her grip loosens until Woojin can shrug her off.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He ignores her bristle and moves forward, until his legs carry him back to Guanlin, where he neatly sets down the plate. “Enjoy.”

Guanlin scarfs down his food with the enthusiasm of a man who hasn’t eaten a proper meal in months. 

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:** Track 3 of CD 1 —  _[La Vie Boheme](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c2qpklxK478)_.

Theatre tryouts are always an interesting experience.

Seongwoo has been teaching theatre—the  _arts_ , as he likes to say it with no exaggeration (but also, no mild amount) of flourish—for a total of five years now; his experience ranging from experienced teams to the likes of elementary school students attempting to not botch up a school play. After he’d been dismissed from his previous team, because they were heading to New York for greater things and Seongwoo found himself being homebound for a reason he can’t remember now, the next adventure had arrived in the form of high school.

High school translates to these things: raw talent, either dead-eyed or bright-eyed (there’s no in between) teenagers with expectations of theatre consisting of drapes and not much else, tryouts in the beginning of every new school year, and the cute conductor of the orchestra who’s around his age, and has been dating Seongwoo for a year.

(The last one isn’t the most professional behavior, but then again, Seongwoo isn’t a full fledged faculty member; he only comes and goes for the theatre program, and that’s that. Period.)

“Are these all of the names?” Seongwoo reads through the list of theatre sign-ups, and makes himself more comfortable in the chair they’ve forced him to sit on for the next hour, or so. It’s hard to estimate a time for sure with theatre tryouts; the shortest Seongwoo has ever attended lasted around twenty minutes, and the longest, a full five hours.

“Yeah, I think so.” His assistant, a recently graduated woman named Jung Chaeyeon, barely looks up from her phone, only sparing a glance to give a quick assessment to the list held in Seongwoo’s hands. A peek over her shoulder tells him that she’s double checking the corresponding list with the people in the waiting bay outside, and for a brief moment, Seongwoo considers just how lucky he is that his assistant is so on top of things. She’s so much more efficient than he is, and her acting’s amazing, too; he needs to bump up her pay grade soon, or maybe recommend her to some of his contacts, if she’d be interested in stepping up and actually  _acting_  instead of assisting him with coaching the kids. He wouldn’t blame her. Teaching high school students is only fun for a limited amount of time before it scatters into the territory of things that would trigger your blood pressure.

“Great.” He leans back in his seat, and stretches his legs, curling his toes to alleviate some of the stiffness that rests on his joints. Seongwoo’s definitely going to work out later. “Tell them to call in the first person.”

A few minutes later, the door groans open, and inside steps in an unfamiliar face. Which is… interesting, considering the theatre commonly has the same few faces, over the years; still, Seongwoo thinks he can place a name onto the face, vaguely remembering a conversation he had with the principal (lovely woman, though Seongwoo understands why some of the theatre kids are downright terrified of her, what with her strong presence and stern nature) about someone who’d essentially been forced to join the program. Seongwoo’s not sure what to make of him, but considering he’s looking around the theatre as if he’s never stepped foot in it before in his life, and only making his way to the stage after realizing Seongwoo and Chaeyeon’s presence, maybe it’d be best for Seongwoo to not set any expectations at all.

But—who knows? Humans are interesting creatures with a tendency to surprise others, so, maybe Seongwoo’s got the  _tiniest_  bit of expectation, even if Park Woojin (yes, he’s just checked the name because he’s not an inattentive coach, one of the  _best_  if he says so himself) doesn’t look like he has any enthusiasm about the program, judging by the frown that mars his lips, and the way his eyes continue to dart towards the exit, like he’s tempted to make a run for it at any moment.

Seongwoo wouldn’t be surprised if that’s exactly what he ends up doing.

“Please step onto the stage, Woojin,” Chaeyeon reminds him, setting her phone down on the table so she can focus on the student. “Feel free to begin your audition whenever you’re ready.”

Hesitantly, Woojin trots up towards the stage, and ends up standing too near the steps, too far away from the center. “Slide a little to your left,” Seongwoo instructs, and Woojin awkwardly ducks to the side. “Make sure to stand in the center—the spotlight should be a good way to tell where it is,” he ends up saying dryly, because the center couldn’t be more obvious, what with the spotlight shining upon it.

Even when Woojin’s in the center, eyes closing and opening rapidly for a few moments until he adjusts to the harsh, white light (although Seongwoo can see how his eyelids are twitching underneath the strain), he makes no move to sing, or dance, or whatever else he might’ve planned.

“I didn’t think people would set up auditions before they announce the play,” is what Woojin says, instead of showcasing his skills. “If we have to audition again for a part later, wouldn’t that be counterproductive?”

“You make an excellent point.” Seongwoo wishes he was wearing glasses just so he could push them up, alas, he’s not wearing glasses, so his arms stay limp. “But, I do this because I want to get a feel of the ones I’ll be training for the next year,” he informs, and Woojin nods.

“Okay then. But, uh.” There’s a beat of silence, and then, “I can’t do, uh, acting improvisation. Or whatever it is actors do when they’re not auditioning for a part.”

“Then sing,” Chaeyeon interrupts their conversation, and musters up a smile that she considers as kind. To her credit, it  _is_ , but Seongwoo’s seen enough of her smiles to know that there’s a hint of annoyance behind the saccharine mask. Chaeyeon doesn’t like it when people waste her time. “Or dance. We’re planning on doing a musical this year, anyway.”

Somehow, high school kids are always more interested in doing Broadway-styled musicals rather than getting themselves involved in a Shakespearean play. Not that it’s of any surprise; they’re young, and when Seongwoo was their age, he’d practiced tooth and nail to get the lead spot in a musical. Used to think they were more fun than the ‘traditional’ plays, but now that he’s older, Seongwoo’s grown a soft spot for the older plays. There’s something about a tragedy that’s fascinating, and really makes him  _wonder_ , but then again, he’d only begun appreciating it sometime during university; he’s dealing with  _high school kids_ , and most of the ones he’s dealt with would prefer to watch La La Land over Hamlet.

“I…” Woojin visibly hesitates, and Seongwoo watches him with mild fascination. It’s a wonder how he hasn’t sprinted out of the room, yet. “Turn on music—whatever kind, I guess, I’ll try to dance to it.”

Chaeyeon twists in her seat, and shouts at the person controlling the lights (and the speakers too, considering there’s only one technical person right now, they don’t need more when it’s only tryouts and not the actual production), “Jinyoung, turn on some music!”

“Any music?” is the yelled reply, and Woo Jinyoung’s head peeks out from the small window.

“Any music,” Chaeyeon assures, and Jinyoung flashes her a quick thumbs up.

Barely seconds later, a beat starts playing through the speakers, and Seongwoo recognizes the voice in the track as Jinyoung’s, doing quick fire rapping and mentioning a few times about “Woo Jinyoung is crazy!”, and admittedly, he’s a little taken aback at the fact that Woo Jinyoung is actually playing his  _mixtape_.

The surprise over that wears off, though, and is replaced by shock over Woojin’s dancing skills once the boy nods his head to the beat, and, after getting a feel of the rhythm, begins to dance.

It’s like a stage number, but even  _better_. Stage numbers are choreographed, and polished to perfection; this isn’t. Woojin is just dancing according to the beat, letting his limbs take him wherever it needs to be, and it’s not perfect—it’s  _raw_ , and it’s powerful, and unpolished, but at the same time, that’s what makes it so charming. None of this was planned. Woojin didn’t think of the moves he’s doing now, but he’s doing them anyway, letting his body sway with the rhythm, expressions contorted near poetically to every movement he’s forming. No matter how imperfect it is, though, in the end, all of the moves blend well together, and Woojin is an amazing dancer. He’s able to put just enough balance, and never overdoes, or undermines, anything he does; it’s like watching a professional, and Seongwoo finds himself breathless, eyes gone wide and the notes he’s supposed to be taking left abandoned.

By the time the music fades and Woojin finally halts, Seongwoo has gotten to his feet, and he begins to clap enthusiastically, the noise echoing in the empty backdrop of the theatre. “Bravo!” he praises, and next to him, Chaeyeon begins to show her appreciation as well, though her clapping isn’t as excited as Seongwoo’s. Still, her smile is now genuine, all trace of tight lipped annoyance missing. “That was amazing. Where did you learn that?” Seongwoo asks once he’s back to his seat, and even though his eyes are on Woojin (who’s currently blushing from the praise, that much is evident because the light practically brings out the pink that dusts over his cheeks), he’s scrawling on his notes, marking down his assessment of the boy’s audition.

“Everywhere?” Woojin offers. “Dancing is… it’s not really something that can be picked up from just one place. I mean, you could attend dance lessons and all, but you can absorb more movements from your daily life too—am I making sense?” he struggles with his words, but Woojin attempts to verbalise them anyway, and Seongwoo smiles broadly at the attempt.

“It’s like acting,” Seongwoo finishes for Woojin, “or at least, that’s how it is for me, too. Very impressive performance, Woojin.”

Woojin bows his head and stares at the floor to hide a grin. “Thank you.”

“We’ll have to test your singing in the future, but for now, that dancing? The best I’ve ever seen,” Seongwoo admits, and Woojin’s head rises up so quickly, and he looks at Seongwoo like he’s trying to find the tell of a lie. “I wouldn’t lie about this, you know. You’re a great dancer—I wonder why you didn’t join theatre last year. We could’ve used someone like you.”

The dancer stays mute, and instead pulls his lips into a wary smile. Seongwoo has the feeling he’ll be meeting that smile a lot in the future, and makes a note to himself to teach Woojin the different types of smile that someone should be able to emulate when acting; after all, that’s one of the basics, and Woojin’s not going to get anywhere as an actor if he has the same smile for every situation. They’ve got a long way to go, but as far as starting points go, Woojin is far from terrible.

“Come to practice tomorrow. We’ll figure something out for you.”

The youth bows. “Thank you. I’ll work hard,” he says quietly, and then slips away from them, leaving a still slightly astonished Seongwoo with a Chaeyeon who’s already called forth the second person on their list.

Although they’ve only witnessed one (hell of an) audition so far, Seongwoo already has the feeling that this is going to be a very,  _very_  long year.

That’s far from being a problem, though. Seongwoo has always loved a challenge.

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:**  Track 4 of CD 1 —  _[History Has Its Eyes On You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rs1zArHXAA8)_.

There are at least ten other people in the room, but the only person Woojin actually knows is Guanlin, who’s sitting beside him and is looking far more relaxed than Woojin is. Not that it’s a hard feat. Woojin continues to shift and fidget in his seat, antsy even as the clock ticks by; grows even more antsy, actually, as time continues to pass and there’s still no sign of the drama teacher and his (very pretty, but kind of scary) assistant.

“What did you do for your audition?” Guanlin asks, completely out of the blue.

“Um.” Surprisingly, Guanlin’s never brought up the subject until now. Yesterday, Woojin figured the younger would’ve bombarded him with questions after he left the audition room, but apparently, that wasn’t the case: Guanlin was too busy preparing for his own audition, and he’d gotten much more prepared than Woojin, who was basically winging it the entire time. “I danced.”

“Could you show me?” Guanlin sounds hopeful, even leaning forward in his seat.

Though he feels bad, Woojin shakes his head. “I can’t. It was freestyle—I don’t even remember clearly the moves I did,” he professes, and offers up an apologetic smile. Guanlin pouts, but he doesn’t press any further, and Woojin appreciates it. No matter how shocked he is that Guanlin hasn’t ditched him, even though he’s now experienced first hand how passive of a friend Woojin is (he can blame this on his lack of experience, or something), Woojin appreciates the moments where he’s able to left to his own devices—these recent days, they’ve become something of a scarcity.

When the door is pushed open, Woojin expects the teacher and his assistant to come in; instead, somebody runs inside, and promptly hits their head against the wall, causing them to stumble and fall onto their bum. Woojin winces, but when he looks around, nobody else looks surprised; they don’t even blink, and continue to go on with their lives, as if this sort of thing happens every other day.  _Wild_.

Holding back a sigh (because he’s sacrificed some of his ‘me time’ for this, but then again, his mother wouldn’t be very happy to know if Woojin had turned a blind eye to someone who hit a wall), Woojin paces towards the fallen figure, and offers his hand. “Do you need help?”

Small, dainty fingers grasp Woojin’s, and with a little bit of strength, Woojin hauls the other to their feet. It’s only then that Woojin gets a good look, and when he does, his expression twists into shock; it’s  _Ahn Hyungseob_.

“Hyungseob?” Woojin knows it’s him, of course. There’s no way he’d mistake Hyungseob for anyone else—he’s spent too much time gazing at the other and daydreaming about him for that mistake—but, considering he’s only seen Hyungseob in passing and their last conversation was in middle school, it’d be better to do that than seem like he’s obsessive. That wouldn’t score him any points, except if you’re counting the points that count someone’s possible creepiness.

Hyungseob’s brows twitch and he peers closely at Woojin; that’s enough to make Woojin flush, and he takes a step back when Hyungseob gets a little too close. It’s not like Woojin’s  _unhappy_  about that, but he’d rather not make a fool of himself during his first meeting with Hyungseob in a while. “Oh, Woojinie!” Hyungseob grins toothily at Woojin, and without hesitation, pushes himself forward and throws Woojin into a hug. It’s one that Woojin returns, almost shyly, and by now he’s so beet red he wonders if he resembles any of the tomatoes placed in his family’s sandwich. “It’s been too long,” Hyungseob says, the sound muffled by Woojin’s shirt.

“It has,” Woojin readily agrees, and releases Hyungseob from the hug, letting the other bounce back. “I, um”—real smooth, Woojin!—“I think it’s because we weren’t put in the same class.”

Hyungseob snaps his fingers. It’s adorable, but then again, Woojin’s had a crush on him since his first year of middle school, so, he might be biased. “That’s right! How’re you holding up? I don’t think I’ve seen you hanging out with anyone—you know you’re always welcomed to join me and my friends.”

And have to spend more time than necessary with Justin Huang? No, thanks.

“I’m fine, really.” Judging by the slant in Hyungseob’s mouth, he doesn’t believe Woojin at all, and Woojin’s a shitty liar, so the lie must’ve been obvious. “I mean, I’ve been making more friends lately.” Friend, technically. “I don’t want to get in theway betweenyou and your friends.”

“Trust me, you wouldn’t be a problem,” Hyungseob fusses, and lightly nudges Woojin’s arm with his own. “I don’t like it when you’re alone. I know you’ve said it doesn’t bother you, but… I still worry, you know.”

“Then, don’t,” Woojin says simply, ignoring the look of disbelief drawn on Hyungseob’s face. “Seob,” he uses his nickname for Hyungseob, and ignores the way just using the name makes his heart pound against his skull, “don’t worry about me. I can handle myself.”

At first, Hyungseob looks like he’s about to argue, but whatever word he’d been meaning to say is interrupted by a loud holler of, “Hello, my darling students!”

Collectively, Woojin and Hyungseob swivel their heads towards the entrance, where Ong Seongwoo is leaning against the doorframe, a wide grin drawn as if he isn’t at least thirty minutes late. Chaeyeon, looking like she’s regretting all of her life decisions, is right next to him, and her eyes scan the room, most likely taking note of their attendance mentally. Or something. Woojin’s still not completely sure how things work around here, but he’s about to find out soon, probably.

“I’m sorry we were late.” Chaeyeon glances at her wristwatch, and grimaces. Even then, she’s pretty. The comments on the Internet were right—as long as the face is pretty, everything else works. Woojin knows he’d just look like a grumpy gnome if he tries to grimace. “We were held back by some discussions, but now that we’re all here, let’s start our first meeting—today, we’re about to do a small introduction to theatre.”

Groans ring around the room.

“I know,  _I know_ , we’ve all been there. But, we’ve got some newcomers, and that’s the least we could do before jumping right into the musical discussion,” Chaeyeon sternly says, making sure to look at each person in the room right in the eyes. When it’s Woojin’s turn to meet those calculative, steely brown eyes, he shivers.

“Well.” Seongwoo claps his hands together, right before he clasps them. Then, he paces around the room, face contorted into deep thought. “An introduction to theatre—sounds a little too practical for me, doesn’t it?” A few quiet laughters pop up from the little crowd, and that’s enough to make Seongwoo’s grin broaden. “There’s really only one thing I’ve got to say for you guys. When you’re preparing for a performance, sometime during production week, you’re going to be tired, and you’re going to feel like  _crap_. I won’t sugarcoat, but, you  _will_. It’s going to be busy and hellish and you might just run for hours on caffeine,” he warns, and Woojin can see how his little speech managed to strike some hearts of the ones who’d been looking a little too helpful.

“But!” The students jump at the raise of Seongwoo’s exclamation. “After production week—that’s when the sadness creeps in. Can anybody explain why?” Someone raises their hand, and Seongwoo inclines his head at them. “Go ahead.”

“Well, I’m just speaking from my experience,” she begins, and Woojin recognizes her; she’s from his class, though she doesn’t come in very often. Kim Doyeon is a teenage model, and she’s the closest thing he knows to a celebrity. He’d never pegged her to be a theatre person, but apparently, this is the case. “The sadness comes in the form of missing the crew, right? You’re going to miss rehearsals, no matter how tiring theywere. You’re going to miss the shows, no matter how chaotic they might’ve been backstage.”

Seongwoo nods, and gives her a round of applause. The rest of the room follows suit, and Woojin’s a beat late, but it’s better than nothing. “Excellent. That’s precisely it—so, to begin our lesson today, I’ll have to say that’s the thing you’ll have to keep in mind during the production era. It’ll be hard, and I won’t make it seem easier than it is. But, it’ll be worth it.” Then, he grins. It’s predatory, and it blends in quite nicely with the overall features of his chiseled face. “Just as long as none of you fuck up.”

Even though he’s grinning as he says it, the words feel more like a threat, and right in that moment, Woojin knows he has to work as hard as he can to meet Seongwoo’s expectations. They’re going to be high, undoubtedly, because there  _has_  to be a reason why their high school is known for their theatre productions; the quality is always impeccable, and Woojin’s even heard stories of a few of their seniors getting scouted immediately by performing arts universities during some of those shows.

He’s not really considering a career in the acting field, or in the entertainment field at all, but judging by the faces of the people in the room—all competitive and bright, as if they’re ready for anything Seongwoo throws at them—he and Guanlin are the only ones who don’t.

“Oh.” Seongwoo suddenly blinks, and looks at Woojin and Hyungseob with something akin to confusion. “Why are you two standing up?”

“I fell,” Hyungseob begins to explain before Woojin does, “and he helped me get up. That’s all.”

“I’d tell you both to sit down, but we’re heading to the theatre, anyway,” Seongwoo comments, eliciting a soft laugh from Hyungseob. “Let’s go, kiddos.”

Everyone in the room follows suit when Seongwoo and Chaeyeon make their way towards the theatre, and Woojin sticks around to wait for Guanlin. The two of them walk at the back of the pack, with Woojin occasionally speaking to let Guanlin know the words of whatever appliances they’d passed that Guanlin still doesn’t know the Korean word to, and soon enough, the both of them arrive at the theatre, where they’re all gathered on stage. The floor is cold, and most likely dirty, but Woojin takes a seat with no complaints.

“This year,” Seongwoo starts, and he forms a slow, wide smirk, “we’re going to do a production of  _Grease_.”

Not a second passes before the room erupts in loud cheers, a few of the students even moving to hug each other; at some point, Woojin draws a hand over his ears when the girls begin to screech and squeal. Seongwoo and Chaeyeon wait for them to calm down, and it takes a few minutes for all of them to settle; but once they have, there’s a renewed sort of interest in the room, and even Woojin finds himself curious of what is to come.

(He doesn’t really know what  _Grease_  is about though. Woojin’s heard of it a few times, but the grease he knows is the kind of grease that clings onto your hair when you haven’t showered in more than three days.)

“For the auditions!” Everyone goes silent at that, and Woojin will swear on his future firstborn that the girl next to him is recording everything Seongwoo is saying in her head. “I’ll be deciding the roles myself.” A round of groans come from the room, and one of the students even resolves to hide his face between his knees in a classic show of teenage anguish. “Now, don’t sound like that! I’ll be giving you all songs, acting exercises, and various dance numbers. The process will go on for a few weeks, but along the way, Chaeyeon and I will start to fit you into your roles. Everyone’s got a chance at getting lead.”

Woojin doesn’t know why most of the people begin to look at Hyungseob at that, leading Hyungseob to pretend as if nobody’s staring at him, smiling faintly at nothing in particular.

“That’s all,” Seongwoo surmises, and flexes both his thumbs in a big thumbs up, the look completed by a wide, blinding grin. In his head, Woojin compares Seongwoo’s pose to Gai from Naruto, but he doesn’t figure Seongwoo would appreciate being compared to a man with the bushiest brows and funkiest fashion in both the anime  _and_  real world. “Now—is there anything you all want to hear about?”

Someone in the front suggests a discussion regarding typecasting, for whatever reason, and Seongwoo goes on a tangent; it’s a really,  _really_  long tangent, with a bunch of terms and other technical things that Woojin can’t wrap his head around. He  _tries_ , of course, because he promised his mother, but he only understands the most basic words that come out of it; so, in the end, he decides to close his eyes. It’s not going to sleep if he doesn’t actually sleep. It’s just… resting his eyes, is all.

But he’s so  _tired_. The words begin to sound more like jumbled gargles, and something that’s not entirely unlike the wave of an ocean spills above him; instead of getting his eyes to open, though, the water’s warm and comforting, and Woojin allows himself to get swept over the tide.

“—hey,  _hey_! Wake up!”

Someone’s hit his arm, and the sting is enough to bring Woojin back from his slumber. Groggily, he forces his eyes to open, no matter how much he’d like to keep them closed until morning comes.

“Wh…?” Woojin trails off, voice heavy and sluggish. Thankfully, nobody else seems to be paying attention to him, and Seongwoo’s still in the middle of his long winded speech; someone’s taking  _notes_  at the front, and everyone else seems to be ensnared by the topic. Woojin, in all his sleepy glory, can only hope to relate.

The person who had woken him up is familiar. Now that Woojin thinks about it, he’s seen the person around; they’re in the same batch, despite never having talked before, and he’s so good looking that Woojin would have a hard time believing he’s never seen the guy around. The face that greets him isn’t overtly familiar, but it’s not that of a stranger’s either, so while Woojin’s forgotten his name (or perhaps he’d never known it at all), he certainly remembers his face.

“If Seongwoo caught you, he would’ve made you recite something torturous,” he says, sounding as if he’s speaking from experience. Judging by the slight resentment in his eyes whenever Seongwoo’s voice goes higher at an invisible exclamation mode, Woojin’s gut tells him that it’s from experience. “Thankfully, he’s too distracted to notice right now.”

“I owe you,” Woojin says, gruffly, and glares with insistence the moment the other begins to shake his head. “Seriously, I do… what’s your name?”

“Park Jihoon,” Jihoon introduces himself, and drops his voice into a hushed whisper, “what’s yours?”

Woojin fixes him with an impassive stare. “You’re whispering just to ask for my name?”

Jihoon scowls. “Better than making them pay too much attention to us,” he says in his defense, and Woojin chortles. He’s got a point.

“I’m Park Woojin.” He searches for a spark of recognition in Jihoon’s eyes, because who  _doesn’t_  know him in this economy, but instead of backing away in terror or bombarding him with questions, Jihoon only nods, accepting his name, and turns his attention back towards Seongwoo.

It’s a new development. Woojin’s not sure how he feels about this.

_How come he doesn’t know me?_

“What, how do I not know you?” Realizing he’d worded out his thoughts, Woojin coughs, and crosses his arms together in embarrassment. “By anychance, are you famous?” Jihoon’s brows furrow in confusion, and his question sounds genuine instead of baiting.

This is where Woojin finds himself at loss. He doesn’t know how to word this without coming off as cocky, because he’s  _not_ , he’s just… shellshocked? Confused? He’d always assumed everyone in the school knew who he was, and just had a tendency to avoid being associated with him like the plague. The Ha Minho incident was the only day that’d been an exception, but the day after that, everything went back to normal. (Minus the addition of Guanlin into his life, who now constantly follows him around like a lost puppy; judging by Guanlin’s circumstances, however, he kind of is.)

“Usually,” Woojin opts, and gives a half smile to Jihoon, who doesn’t look impressed, all things considered. “But, um. Not all the time, I guess.”

Jihoon closes his eyes, and for a few moments, Woojin’s beginning to think that’s the end of their conversation—at least, until he suddenly snaps his fingers and opens his eyes, nearly startling Woojin to jump in his seat. “I remember you!” he exclaims, but keeps his voice down. “You’re the one who had a fight with Minho a couple days back, aren’t you?”

It’s official: Woojin is stuck with this title for the rest of his life. As far as recognition goes, certain things could be better.

“Yes,” Woojin says, because beggars can’t be choosers. “Are we going to have a problem about that?”

“Why would we?” Jihoon returns, eyes blank of anything that might give a tell for Woojin regarding his personal feelings on the matter. “I’ve got no sympathy for him. Do whatever you want with him, honestly. It won’t be any of my business anyway.”

“Huh.” Woojin casts his eyes over Jihoon again, and finds that Jihoon’s glasses are too big for the bridge of his nose. It keeps slipping, and Jihoon has the constant habit of fixing it. “Your glasses are too big,” he points out, rather daftly, any tact whatsoever lost in translation.

Jihoon laughs. “I know.”

“Then why are you still using them?” It wasn’t meant to be a rude question, and judging by how Jihoon’s blooming smile, Jihoon knows that, too.

“I’m a sentimental person.”

Woojin doesn’t know the half of it.

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:**  Track 5 of CD 1 —  _[For Forever](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xkdPRcY0k4o)._

On a scale of one to ten, Guanlin would rate dance practice as a wholesome ten—with the T standing for ‘torture.’

His limbs are just  _terrible_  at cooperating with what his brain tells them to do. See, this is all because his limbs are way too long! Everyone else is dancing along to the routine perfectly fine, but he’s the only one having difficulty because Guanlin is the only one whose arms can easily reach for his feet.

“I can’t do this,” Guanlin groans, collapsing onto the floor in a poorly coordinated sprawl.

Woojin, bless his soul, chucks a cold bottle of mineral water at Guanlin, who manages to snatch it mid-air. “Drink up.”

Not needing to be told twice, Guanlin uncaps the bottle, and greedily downs its contents. The coldness causes him to flinch, and some of the water spills onto his chin, but he continues to drink anyway, right until the bottle is a few sips away from being completely empty.

“You’re having a difficult time?” Woojin takes a seat on the floor next to him, and while he’s addressing Guanlin, he’s also stretching his spread feet.

“Yeah,” Guanlin grudgingly admits, “not that you could relate.”

His friend slaps Guanlin’s back, and it’s not hard, nor does it hurt; it does just enough to get him to jolt. “Everyone starts somewhere. Come on, I’ll help you with the moves. Just show me the parts you’re having trouble with.”

For all of Woojin’s talk of being a terrible friend, he’s actually more than a fine companion. Guanlin can count on neither of his hands about the amount of times he’s gotten his feelings genuinely hurt by Woojin, because  _that’s_  how mindful the older is about Guanlin; honestly, Woojin is  _nice_ , and Guanlin finds it both interesting and weird how he doesn’t seem to realize it himself—nor do the people around him, considering the most they’d associate Woojin with is alongside the title of ‘prankster’, and nothing else.

When Woojin offers Guanlin a hand, he readily accepts it, and allows Woojin to haul him to his feet. It makes him stumble awkwardly, losing a foot of his balance, but a steady grip on his forearm is enough to save him from the pain and embarrassment of falling. “I’ve got you,” Woojin assures, and gives Guanlin a small, barely noticeable smile.

But, still: a smile is a smile, and Guanlin feels as if he’d won the lottery when he managed to place himself firmly in Woojin’s life. As far as friendships go, things could be much worse.

Following Woojin’s instruction, Guanlin attempts (and fails) the dance move he has been struggling over, face twisting as he does the steps. In the beginning, things go smoothly, but nearing the end, where he has to force himself into a twirl, his legs stumble over each other and before he knows it, Guanlin finds himself falling to the floor.

He braces himself for an impact that never comes.

At the very last moment, someone pushes him back upright, grunting as he does. It’s Woojin, Guanlin realizes once he’s peeked his eyes, who allows Guanlin to hold onto his shoulders to help him regain his balance once he’s safely back on his feet.

“It’s the balance you’re having trouble with?” Woojin tests, and Guanlin readily nods, still grappling onto Woojin’s shoulders. “Okay, I can help with that. It might not work, though,” he warns, but Guanlin listens anyway, because he trusts Woojin. Maybe that’s stupid, considering they’ve only really known each other for a couple of days, but Woojin hasn’t done anything to drive Guanlin to mistrust; quite the opposite, actually, considering everything Woojin does fuels Guanlin with newfound trust.

When Woojin demonstrates a way to do the move without tipping over, Guanlin watches keenly, storing every bit of movement into his head. Once Woojin is finished with his demonstration, he gives Guanlin an encouraging nod. “Go on, try it.”

So, Guanlin tries. He doesn’t fall, and he manages to do the move, as stiff as it might be; but  _still_ , he’s successful, and that’s enough to get him to grin to the point he begins to laugh out of plain euphoria.

He did it.  _He did it!_

“All good?” Woojin’s grinning through his words, and Guanlin beams at him, showing his pearly whites.

“All  _great_ ,” he easily corrects, and enjoys the sound of Woojin’s soft, quiet laughter. Although Woojin isn’t the type to show much of his emotions (if there’s something Guanlin’s learnt of him during their still short time as friends, it’s definitely this), whenever he does, it’s rarely ever fake; and, hearing the sound of his deep laughter and seeing the snaggletooth from his smile, there’s no doubt that whatever this is, it’s real.

Neither of them notice Seongwoo watching them intently frzom the sidelines, a plan formulating in his head as he begins to scrawl, almost furiously, on his casting paper; they’ve got no idea of what’s coming. (But if they’d noticed, then they would know that they’re in for a boatload of trouble for these coming months.)

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:** Track 6 of CD 1 —  _[Waving Through A Window](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kfnMvo87fQU)_.

If someone were to ask about Hyungseob’s biggest regret, he would say, without an ounce of doubt, the mistake he made on opening night of last year’s production of  _West Side Story_.

Certain things have a domino effect. Where, if something happens, then suddenly, everything else that’d been kept standing together falls, too, and results in what usually becomes a mess—a giant clusterfuck, if Hyungseob were to be blunt.

What happened to him last year is an example of how  _one_  mistake can lead to everything you’ve worked for, maybe for months or for years or even for over a decade in Hyungseob’s case, can shatter in a matter of minutes. A slip up of his lines on stage, an improvisation that grew hazardous and tarnished the scene (leaving him and his actors dumbfounded and confused, eventually going off stage with the scene in metaphorical flames and Seongwoo’s wrath hanging upon them), led to rumors of Ahn Hyungseob losing his touch to spread like wildfire.

He shouldn’t be surprised.

It’s high school. Like a pack of vultures, the students would dig their talons into any story worth telling, validity be damned. 

(Except—are the rumors really invalid, though? After the mistake, on the next night, Hyungseob slipped during one of the scenes; though the mistake was to a much lesser extent when compared to the mess he’d made the night before, it was still a  _mistake_ , and two mistakes within the span of two nights was, and still is, two too many.)

Maybe they’re right. He’s just lost his touch, and now, he’s not as good as he used to be. Not as good as two years ago, when he’d been headlining every production, and could handle any role they threw him—not that there was variation, considering he always received the lead roles—without making a single slip up on stage. Maybe he’s just another theatre kid now, instead of being  _Ahn Hyungseob_ , the  _star_  of the team.

But, he doesn’t want to believe it. He doesn’t want to believe that he’s just like what the rumors say about him, because he’s  _not_. There’s a reason behind the amount of sore throats he’d gotten over the summer, the many hours (over a hundred!) he’d spent behind the screen of his computer, watching and learning from the professionals doing their work on stage. He’s still  _good_ , damn it, and he’s going to get the lead role in this production and prove everyone wrong!

Or at least, that’s what he was hoping for, until he finds the cast list posted and doesn’t find his name listed next to the role of ‘Danny Zuko.’

 

**GREASE CAST LIST**

Danny Zuko — Lai Guanlin  
Sandy Olsson — Jeon Somi  
Betty Rizzo — Kim Doyeon  
Kenickie Murdoch — Park Woojin  
Frenchie — Kang Mina  
Doody — Ahn Hyungseob

 

The list continues to go on, of course, they’ve got many shoes to fit; but Hyungseob’s stopped reading, and barely notices he’s digging his nails too deep into his skin until something warm trickles down his palm.

Hyungseob flexes his fingers, lets the blood ooze from the wound and simmer down on the floor. Now, there are tiny droplets of red staining the pure white, but it’s just blood. It won’t be difficult to mop off.

“Oh? Cast list?”

Shit. No one can see Hyungseob like this—showing weakness is the last thing he needs to do in this situation, considering he’s going to be faced with so many snide comments over the casting during the next few months. The feeling’s too strong in his gut to ignore.

“Hyungseob, is that the cast list?” Woojin moves to stand next to him, looking at the piece of paper pinned to the board. His fingers trace down the names until he finds his, and he makes a curious noise, before turning towards Hyungseob, question marks bursting through his eyes. “What’s a Kenickie Murdoch? He’s not the main character, is he?”

“No.” But Kenickie’s still a bigger character than fucking  _Doody_ , and Hyungseob forces himself to keep his eyes away from Woojin. If he does, he fears Woojin might find hatred lurking beneath the unsteady browns; that’s the last thing he needs right now. “He’s not.”

He walks away before Woojin has the chance to wonder if there’s something wrong with Ahn Hyungseob. (There is something wrong—there are a lot of things wrong, but if even Hyungseob’s closest friends have no idea what’s going on, he doesn’t see the point in letting anyone else unravel the ugly truth underneath the unblemished veneer.)

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:**  Track 7 of CD 1 — _[Greased Lightning](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H-kL8A4RNQ8)._

“Are you really,  _really_  sure you can’t make me the tree instead?”

Woojin’s getting desperate, by this point. Seongwoo’s not even looking at him anymore, instead focusing himself by giving out orders to the other students, and paces a few steps too fast. Doesn’t even want Woojin to walk with him, but if Seongwoo’s adamant not to listen, then Woojin’s even  _more_  adamant to get him to just  _listen_. He’s not asking for much. At least, he thinks he’s not. Maybe he can’t speak for Seongwoo himself.

“Good job on the pose, Doyeon, but pop your hip a little bit—yep, just like that!” Seongwoo resumes to pretend Woojin doesn’t exist, shouting bits of advice and critiques for the practicing theatre kids. It’s only when the both of them reach the end of the room, because if they walk any further they’re just going to hit the wall, that Seongwoo sighs, and makes a cross over his chest.

Um. While Woojin’s not strictly religious, it still strikes him as odd behavior when Seongwoo goes to that extent. “What are you doing?”

“I’m asking the Lord for patience,” is Seongwoo’s blunt reply, and he firmly sucks in a breath, exhales, before he turns on his heels. He’s a little taller than Woojin is, and suddenly, Woojin finds it more than slightly intimidating when he needs to look up in order to meet Seongwoo’s eyes instead of the slant of his lips.

“There must’ve been a mistake.” Woojin doesn’t bother with the frivolities and just gets right to it. He’s never been good at making small talk, anyway, and he remembers an incident where he’d offended someone by asking about the weather like it was just yesterday. “I don’t think I should get a role as big as Kenickie’s.”

“And you know that how?” Somehow, Woojin has the feeling Seongwoo is expecting him to say something along the lines of watching the movie, or hell, maybe finding a bootleg (although that’s illegal), but if that’s what Seongwoo is expecting indeed, he wishes the older is ready to be disappointed.

“I read the Wikipedia page.” The tired, knowing look in Seongwoo’s eyes says it all. “I found out that apparently he’s the second lead? Or something?”

“Second lead? This isn’t a drama—”

“I know, I know!” He’s grateful he managed to slip in another word, because Seongwoo’s lips have gone tight, and his cheeks begin to get a little purple, like this is the kind of conversation he’s had numerous times and yet, the topic continues to enrage him. “I meant, he seemed to be kind of like, the second lead male character. And I think, out of all the roles that Grease has, I’m fit to be a tree,” he says solemnly, trying his best to seem as serious as he can when meeting Seongwoo’s assessing stare. He feels like he’s being sized up for a match in the ring, honestly, and it takes all of the courage he’d never known he’d possessed not to flinch underneath the scrutiny.

“You’re not allowed to be a tree. This is going to be a tree free production,” he informs, shaking his head.

Desperation clings onto him as a second skin. “Then let me be a rock! We’re going to have rocks, right? Come on, it wouldn’t be theatre without a rock!” By now, he’s just spewing whatever comes out of his ass, but that’s the extent of how far Woojin would go just to  _not_  have to stand underneath the spotlight for longer than approximately five seconds.

“No,” Seongwoo says sternly, fixing Woojin with a chilling glare. “I’ve worked hard in making sure you’ve all gotten the roles that fit you the most, and you’re not going to let my hard work go to waste, alright?” At Woojin’s silence, he repeats, “ _alright_?”

Glumly, Woojin nods. The defeat tastes like something pathetic, and that something pathetic might be him, but then again, sometimes the winners are the ones who get to see another day. “Fine,” he speaks, under his breath.

A switch is flicked in Seongwoo’s expression, for the older immediately breaks out into an exuberant, wide grin, and honestly, Woojin is terrified. Actors are  _scary_ , because less than a minute ago, Seongwoo looked like he was three counts away from dismembering Woojin out of a mixture between rage and disappointment.

“Great! We won’t be having any problems, then. You know, Woojin, I’m actually very nice, and the kids love me. I come up with the best facial expressions.”To demonstrate, Seongwoo contorts his features into something nearly unrecognizable, and Woojin is more worried for Seongwoo’s body parts than he is impressed. “As long as you don’t get on my bad side and you keep working hard, we’ll be completely fine!”

Before Woojin can get a word in, Seongwoo’s pat him on the shoulder and walked away, breezing past him while whistling a song that Woojin can’t recognize, but would bet his arm on it being a show tune. He can’t see Seongwoo as the type that would listen to anything else.

This is going to be tough.

He doesn’t really have it in him to  _really_  regret the consequences of his actions, though. Woojin’s made peace with what he’s done, and by now, he’s gotten so used to having Guanlin around that it’s more difficult to imagine how life would be if he hadn’t made the decision to save him. So, yeah. Woojin’s gone a little softer around the edges, and maybe he’s not all that proud to admit it, because he’s supposed to have a reputation—but at the same time, Woojin wouldn’t be able to deny that he likes having Guanlin around, for all the things he spews about not needing any friends. Because, he doesn’t  _need_  them, and he functioned perfectly fine before Guanlin bundled into his life. He’d still function alright even without him; having the other around is just… an addition, a nice one, something that gives Woojin another reason to go to school instead of playing hooky. Maybe they’re not best friends, and maybe Woojin still finds himself second guessing when he refers to Guanlin as a friend, having it go against his very beliefs. But they’re getting there, and perhaps they still have a long way to go.

That’s alright.

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:**  Track 8 of CD 1 —  _[Believe In This Moment](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v6KCx1YdmwU)_.

As his luck would have it, Woojin is the first person who Seongwoo calls upon to read out his lines in front of the masses. To be frank, it’s  _terrifying_. While Woojin doesn’t find himself breaking out in cold sweat, he can still feel the weight of everyone’s gaze, and when standing at the very front with only Guanlin giving him a smile of encouragement, the only thing Woojin wants to do is not to recite his lines, but to go home and spend the rest of his day locked up in his room with the company of his five video games.

Sadly, that’s not an option, and that’s not just because the piano is conveniently blocking the exit. (Seongwoo’s idea, go figure.)

“Hyungseob, you’ll be starting out the conversation,” Seongwoo instructs, and a beat later, adds, “as Doody.”

He swears he sees something he’s never seen in Hyungseob right at that moment; the clenching of his fists and the way his smile tightens, but the look is immediately erased with a bright, artificial smile. Something not unlike unease crawls down Woojin’s spine. “Of course!”

Somehow, the acceptance is more terrifying than what would’ve become of a rejection.

“ _Hey, Kenickie, whatcha got in the bag? I’ll trade ya’ half a sardine._ ” Hyungseob, though sitting down, contorts his expression to rightfully suit his character. Somewhere in the room, someone shouts something like, ‘as expected of Ahn Hyungseob!’ that goes largely ignored.

Because he still hasn’t taken his time to do further research on his character, Woojin doesn’t  _actually_  know how he’s supposed to sound like, but he attempts to make himself sound gruffer than he is, and forces his face to twist into something ugly and mean. “ _Get outta here with that dog food. I ain’t messin’ up my stomach with none of that crap._ ”

Neither Woojin nor Hyungseob are able to say another word before Seongwoo throws up both of his arms in the air, waving them wildly to regain their attention. It succeeds. “No,  _no_ , stop! Hyungseob, you’re good as usual, but Woojin—you’re…” he trails off in cheap disbelief, looking at Woojin as if he’s seeing him for the very first time. “You suck at this.”

“This is exactly why I wanted to be a tree,” Woojin points out, relishing in the brief look of consideration that crosses Seongwoo’s features. He doesn’t dare to hope on it, and that might’ve been a good move, considering how adamant Seongwoo grows when it comes to having Woojin keep his role.

“You’d be the most terrible tree in theatre history. Right now, you’re  _also_  the worst Kenickie, but luckily, we’ve got time,” Chaeyeon pipes up from her designated spot beside Seongwoo, already typing something rapid fire through her phone. If it turned out to be acting lessons to print out and hand over to Woojin, well, Woojin wouldn’t be surprised.

“Your strength lies in your performance,” Seongwoo begins, making a vague gesture that probably translates to a poor imitation of Woojin’s freestyle dance. “But your acting leaves much to be desired. First of all.” He holdsup one finger. “Instead of acting, you sound like you’re  _reading_. To be an actor, that means you have to be someone else. Earlier, you sounded like Park Woojin, just reading from a book with some added intonations. It’s just not convincing!”

“I’ll try harder—”

“Woojin, anyone can say that.” Seongwoo rolls his eyes, and wags the finger he’s holding up. “No, you  _need_  to try harder, and there needs to be improvements that show with that, too. I know I might seem uncharacteristically serious right now, but Woojin, your role isn’t something to sniff at. I don’t need a miscasting to jeopardize the production, do you understand?”

The worst part of this is Woojin can’t even bring himself to feel any sort of bitter resentment towards the acting coach. It isn’t a matter of his ability to handle criticism, but it’s more along the lines of how Woojin  _knows_  Seongwoo is speaking the truth. Woojin should’ve at least  _tried_  to research his character further, to have an idea how he should portray him, but evidently, that’s not what he’d ended up doing. Now he’s only sounding like he’s memorizing for a test, and the last thing Woojin needs is to ruin something that everyone else (even Guanlin— _especially_  Guanlin, who’s taking the news of him being the leading man of the production much better than Woojin did after knowing of his role as the second, less important man, but still somewhat important man in the play) is working their assess off for.

“I understand,” Woojin says, bowing his head. Because he does, and he’s going to make sure to start trying for real, now. He might still not be thrilled about being a part of the school’s theatre, but it doesn’t mean he’s willing to half ass his way now that he’s here.

Seongwoo looks at him for a few more seconds, and then, like he’s made up a decision, he makes a noncommittal grunt that Woojin guesses is for himself. “I’ll have to assign someone to help you with your acting.”

At that, any semblance of chatter subsides, and the room is so silent Woojin can clearly hear the resounding gulp from some of the students. Tutor duty isn’t something you’d look forward to when you have your own lines to worry about.

“You don’t have to,” Woojin tries to dissuade Seongwoo, crossing his hands together in an obvious ‘X’ that Seongwoo gleefully ignores. “I can improve on my own, I mean, I know that was a  _really,_ really shitty performance I put on, but—!”

His next words are muffled when Seongwoo claps his hand over Woojin’s mouth in an effective technique of driving him to forced silence. “Park Jihoon, would you be able to help Woojin over here with his acting?”

That’s an order, not a question, no matter what the question mark makes it seem like.

“Yeah,” Jihoon says from the crowd, and Woojin catches his eye. “I can help him.”

Seongwoo makes his approval evident, and removes the hand he’d been holding over Woojin’s mouth, wiping it on the hem of his shirt. His nose wrinkles in distaste. “Thank you for not licking,” he directs at Woojin, still rubbing the palm of his hand. “That’s a first.”

“Yeah, well, maybe that’d happen less if you’d let people speak their mind instead of forcing them to shut up,” Woojin says tersely.

Instead of getting angry or brushing away the comment, Seongwoo does the unexpected: he laughs, full blown, and his hand clamps down so abruptly on Woojin’s shoulder that he can’t help but  _force_  himself to stay on the ground instead of succumbing to the reflex to jump.

“Now there’s the Woojin I’ve read records about!” Seongwoo says with a flourish, shameless in his admittance. “Here, have him.” Without care, he pushes Woojin towards Jihoon’s way, and he’s only saved from falling by laying a grip on his hand at the very last moments. He wobbles, sure, but wobbling isn’t as embarrassing as falling.

“You alright?” Jihoon asks tentatively once Woojin’s settled on the ground, darting his eyes over at him with concern.

“Physically, I’m fine.” Woojin outstretches his legs, and rests his hands on the floor. “My pride isn’t doing as good, however.”

Jihoon makes a sound of amusement at Woojin’s blunt honesty. “You’ll get used to him.”

With a groan, Woojin lolls his head to one side, and closes his eyes. “Color me stoked.”

The rest of the time passes by in a flash. Soon, though not soon enough, Seongwoo dismisses them. Woojin gets up to leave, but finds himself being held back by Jihoon, who’s holding onto the back of his uniform. In the awkward pose between standing and sitting up, Woojin sighs. “What.”

Across the room, Guanlin is already standing, but makes no move to leave. Instead, he’s taken himself to stare at Woojin and Jihoon, fingers drumming restlessly on the hem of his pants.

Figures. Guanlin wouldn’t leave Woojin behind, and would rather stick around to see the exchange between him and Jihoon instead.

“Oi, look at me.” Jihoon tugs harshly, and Woojin yelps, but finds himself following Jihoon’s order anyway. “When are you free?”

The confusion must be evident, because Jihoon adds, “I don’t know if you think he was joking, but he wasn’t, and I’ve really got to help you with your lines.”

“But you’re not even an actor?” Woojin points out tactlessly, making him the end of Jihoon’s unamused stare. “Uh…”

“You’re right,” Jihoon says, not letting go of his hold. “I’m a costume director, but if he’d assigned me to help you out, then there’s got to be a reason, don’t you think?”

It’s amazing how Jihoon’s not even saying much and he’s already thrown Woojin’s logic to shambles, so, instead of gaping like a fish at the bespectacled boy (who looks weary enough as it is), he settles for an apologetic half smile. “I’m free on most days, but your best bet would be on the weekend. I’ve got dance club.” And his unofficial part time job at the restaurant, but that has flexible hours, so Woojin doesn’t worry about that. “Could you, uh…?” He can already feel the wrinkles he’ll have to smooth out later, and at the reminder, Jihoon lets go of the back of his uniform. A little slowly, and his hands linger on the air for a few moments, but he eventually hovers it over his own lap.

“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound all that sorry. “Weekends, alright. We’ll work it out. You’re in the group chat, right?” Woojin nods. “Saves me the trouble from saving your number. I’ll see you, then.”

“See you,” Woojin returns, just to be cordial. It must be Guanlin rubbing off on him, because when was the last time he did something just to be  _cordial_?

He leaves the room with Guanlin, who makes it a habit to sling an arm over Woojin’s shoulders. Guanlin’s arm is long, long enough that the hand reaches past Woojin’s chest and hovers a little in front of his stomach, and Woojin doesn’t even bother to shake him off. He’s learned the hard way that Guanlin is adamant about these kinds of things, stubborn enough to make sure his hand returns there even when Woojin thinks he’s successfully pried him away.

“What was that about?” Guanlin asks, steering the both of them through the mostly empty hallways.

“Acting practice, like what Seongwoo said.” Woojin doesn’t bother to add the formalities to their teacher’s name, because Seongwoo’s not there, anyway. “How’re you holding up?”

Guanlin’s expression brightens, and Woojin has the feeling the younger has been expecting this question for a while now. “I’ve memorized half of my lines from the script!” he says proudly, “I’ve even watched the movie, just to know how the songs would sound like.”

“And how do they sound like?”

“Old.” Guanlin makes a face at that, causing Woojin to chuckle. “Grease  _is_  pretty old, though. I guess I should’ve expected that.”

“I still haven’t watched it,” Woojin sighs, slumping his shoulders. “Is there a word that describes the feeling of being too lazy to do something, even if it’s just watching a movie?”

“You’re asking  _me_ , a foreigner—”

“Alright, fine, that was a stupid question!”

Their joined laughter rings merrily through the room.

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:** Track 9 of CD 1 —  _[Born To Hand Jive](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fY5pmzmiDO8)_.

The theatre downtown is showing Grease, and that’s a rare enough occasion as a break from the constant stream of blockbusters that make for the usual headlines. Woojin, who  _still_  hasn’t watched Grease, finds himself getting dragged out of his house by an over enthusiastic Guanlin, to the silent amusement of his mother and Sejeong.

“Have fun, you two! Don’t come back too late!” His mother waves them off merrily on their way, never forgetting to give Woojin just enough money to buy themselves tickets and a small bucket of popcorn.

“It’s a school night,” Sejeong follows his mother’s suit, a grin that would make the Cheshire Cat proud worn on her lips. “If you try anything funny—”

“Oh my God,  _Sejeong_!” Woojin covers both of his ears, and runs as fast as he can towards the cinema, leaving Guanlin behind in the dust.

“Wait up!”

He only slows to a jog once he determines he’s reached a safe distance from his house, and by then, Guanlin’s a panting, sweaty mess. His footsteps create tracks on the streets, and he has to hold onto a street lamp to stand up without wobbling his knees.

“Is that the only exercise you get?” Woojin asks, barely out of breath. He’s in a notably much better condition than Guanlin is, considering his habit of morning runs every morning on the weekends. That, and pranking requires a lot of running and other things that built up his stamina. (So, thank you, prank gods.)

“Aside from dancing and whatever it is that Seongwoo calls stretching?” Guanlin leans heavily against the lamp. “That’s the first exercise I’ve gotten since I got here.”

“What about gym class?”

Guanlin grimaces, and gives a funny, strangled kind of laugh. “I… skip,” he admits, but doesn’t look very shameful. “Don’t look at me like that, it’s easy to forge my mom’s signature and I used google translate to figure out the words for excusing me since I have a condition—”

“You’re a terrible person,” Woojin manages to say through his wheezy laughter, and when he throws his head back, he can see the stars that dot across the sky. “I can’t believe you’re going that far just to stay out of gym class.” He snorts, and takes in a deep breath of fresh air, and bows his head. He can feel his blood rushing.

“I’m a dedicated person?” Guanlin tries, with a smile that he might judge as innocent but all Woojin’s seeing is the personification of awkwardness. He has to strangle a fond grin from forming. “Okay, so maybe I  _am_  overdoing it.”

Woojin raises a brow, obviously unimpressed. “ _Maybe_ ,” he repeats in disbelief.

“I can’t judge what’s the standard for ‘maybe’ for everyone!” he defends weakly, smiling the smile of a child caught with his hand down a candy jar.

They take their sweet time to calm down before they continue their walk towards the cinema, with Woojin making his steps in silence, and Guanlin humming a catchy tune that Woojin’s heard before on a cartoon channel, either months, or maybe even years ago. Time tends to blur together, for Woojin, where his life feels like a terribly directed movie with the credits nowhere in sight, and the main character just does the same thing over and over again to the point it bores the viewers, makes them wonder if there’s actually a plot to it. Maybe he’s being harsh, and maybe he’s not. Like Guanlin said (and this he paraphrases), there’s no way for him to judge the universal standard of maybes.

Right outside the entrance, the ticket booth has only one line, so Woojin easily falls to the back, bouncing on the tips of his toes to peer at the front. The line is short, and only three people are ahead of him; three people Woojin doesn’t recognize, all of them at least six years older to have gone to the same school as him, and that works out perfectly fine.

“Next, please,” the person running the ticket counter requests of him once it’s his turn, and Woojin steps forward, and lifts two of his fingers.

“Two tickets for Grease.”

“Where would you like to sit?”

Though the theatre is only halfway full, Woojin manages to find decent seats, and hovers his index finger over them. Handing over the money, the worker gratefully accepts, and exchanges the cash with the newly printed tickets. “Enjoy the show. Next!”

Outside the line, Guanlin is hugging a bucket of popcorn as big as a basketball close to his chest. The scent of butter wafts through the air, and Woojin catches a whiff, hearing his stomach promptly growl. He hasn’t eaten anything since this afternoon, being too busy practicing theatre and between that and handling Guanlin’s uninvited company in the restaurant, Woojin would consider himself lucky to even get a single  _bite_  out of something like stale bread.

“I hope that’s for the both of us.” Woojin’s mouth is dry, and okay, maybe he’s gaping a  _little_ , but that’s his stomach thinking for him instead of his head.

“Don’t worry, it is.” Guanlin beams, the gums of his mouth showing as he wears a full blown grin. He grasps the handle of the bucket with the fingers of his right hand, removing it from its clutch to his chest, and lets it dangle tantalizingly on the air. Embarrassingly, Woojin’s eyes follow the shift of its axis. “Do you want to go inside the theatre now?”

The sooner they get inside, the sooner Woojin can stuff his face with the buttery treat, so, he nods—vigorously, might he add. “ _Yes_ , yes. Definitely. Absolutely.”

It comes as a surprise when, once the both of them are safely inside the theatre with neatly ripped tickets pocketed snugly, there’s already a person taking the seat next to the person who gets to take the second seat from the stairs. On a regular occasion, having someone already sitting next to your designated seat wouldn’t be anything  _noteworthy_ , but that shit turns into something notable when the person isn’t just  _anyone_ ; it’s someone you know. In Woojin’s case, this is the someone he’s supposed to be having acting lessons with, not that neither of them have progressed past anything since Seongwoo’s first hazardous command.

A hazardous command that should’ve started it all, except, Woojin doesn’t feel like messaging Jihoon to work out their schedule, and Jihoon doesn’t bother to take the initiative. So, technically the command turned out to be null, more or less.

Guanlin calls dibs on the seat right next to the stairs, throwing his full weight onto the squeaky red velvet padding. “Sit next to me,” he instructs, draping an arm over the upper area of the chair, or couch, whatever it is they call these things, next to him.

Having to sit through a movie next to Park Jihoon isn’t on Woojin’s bucket list, but he doesn’t really have a choice anyway (unless he fancies returning to the masses and spending the remainder of his money on new tickets), so, he sits. Not making a noise of complaint, only a side glance at Jihoon’s way, that goes ignored—whether it’s because Jihoon is ignoring him or if he’s  _that_  immersed in the pocket dictionary stylishly cupped in his hand.

The lights grow dim, not automatically, but methodically. All it takes are five seconds for the room to turn black, the only light coming from the projector, slowly expanding until it reaches its full width. Woojin stuffs his face with popcorn, sighing in bliss when the taste of artificial butter that isn’t entirely healthy and is likely made up of cholesterol bursts in his mouth.

With the movie starting, it turns out to be an easy task for Woojin to ignore Jihoon’s unmoving presence, or Guanlin’s excited bouncing in his seat, to just keep his eyes fixed onto the picture as his hand methodically shuffles food into his open, awaiting mouth. The concentration is broken only when Guanlin stands up from his seat, causing a small groan to be produced by the chair from the sudden lightness. “Bathroom,” he explains, and jogs away. Woojin stares at his retreating figure, and, shaking his head, puts his attention back to the movie.

Barely a line later, Jihoon slams his pocket dictionary down on his thigh. “Damn.”

Woojin casts a wary glance to his left, finding Jihoon leaned back on his seat, the dictionary cast down from his hand. He can’t read Jihoon’s face considering how dark he is, but judging by the constant twitching of his fingers, he’d bet on it being annoyance.

He darts his tongue over the roof of his mouth, meaning to ask, but the light protruding from the pocket dictionary catches his attention before he can sound a syllable from his throat. “What’s that?” he implores, keeping his voice a notch lower than its usual timbre.

“Oh, this?” Jihoon looks down at his lap, and opens the dictionary. Under the cover, Jihoon’s phone showcases his locked screen, casting subdued brightness upon Jihoon’s face. His eyes are wrenched closed, and his lips are weighed down from a grimace. “That’s bright, ugh.” Once he manages to open his eyes, his fingers pull on the controller of the brightness, and drags the setting down to its lowest option. “Better.” Jihoon voices his satisfaction with a click of his tongue.

“What were you doing with your phone? Wait, is that what you were doing the  _entire_ time?” It shouldn’t come as a surprise to Woojin, if the accusation turned out to be true. There’s nothing interesting enough in a pocket dictionary it’d keep Jihoon’s attentions fixed raptly upon it during the entirety of the movie (so far)—not that he’s been sneaking glances at Jihoon for the past twenty-something minutes.

To his credit, Jihoon only lolls his head to the side, and pulls up the camera option of his phone. A single tap is all it takes to get it into selfie mode, and he holds up the pocket dictionary once more, directing it a little to his right. Woojin cranes his neck, eyes widening when he realizes what the other is doing.  _Has_  been doing.

“Are you spying!?”

In his haste, Woojin forgets to keep his voice down; in return, he receives dirty glares from all directions and the person in front of him whirls around to flip him off. “Shut up!” she hisses, and Woojin’s glad neither of them can clearly see each other’s faces, or else it’d only amount to more terror for him.

“Sorry,” he chokes out, throwing on a shaky smile.

This is all  _Jihoon’s_  fault, and the worst part of it is, Jihoon doesn’t even look guilty now that he’s caused hate for an innocent, dumbfounded bystander like Woojin. Instead of groveling for forgiveness or maybe even looking on the commotion in horror, Jihoon’s shoulders are shaking and his mouth is spread wide, a noise not unlike wheezing coming out of his clamped lips. He’s actually  _laughing_  at him, and the weirdest part of this is, Woojin has the urge to laugh  _with_  him, even if it’s at the cost of Woojin’s own misfortune.

Three words: what the fuck.

“You’re right,” says Jihoon suddenly, but the words are more half air than solid sentence, considering he’s still trying to calm himself down. “I was spying.”

The topic of Jihoon’s interest is  _too_  interesting not to spy on, though, and this Woojin admits carelessly. On the utmost right corner of the theatre, two seats are filled with Seongwoo and a man so handsome it makes Woojin wonder  _why_  he’s even gracing their theatre teacher’s presence. Not that Seongwoo isn’t handsome, but having been exposed to his personality, it’s a miracle someone would even consider  _dating_  him.

“That’s Minhyun,” whispers Jihoon, and he wiggles his index finger, gesturing Woojin to get closer. So, Woojin does, and Jihoon leans to talk closely to Woojin’s ear. It’s close enough for Woojin to feel the warmth of Jihoon’s breath, tingly and not entirely unpleasant, but there’s still enough distance so that he can’t feel the form of Jihoon’s mouth on the tender skin of his ear. Just his steady breathing, and the exhale that comes with every word.

Woojin twists his face into that of loss. “Who’s that?”

“The conductor of the school orchestra.” Although Woojin can’t see Jihoon’s face, he imagines the latter’s expression to be something along the lines of exasperation. “Haven’t you heard the rumors?”

“Oh.” Woojin’s eyes widen, recalling everything he’d accidentally overheard regarding the rumors between Seongwoo and his supposed boyfriend. “So, the rumors are true?”

On a normal day, Woojin’s not one for gossip, but if it’s dirt on Ong Seongwoo, he can happily make an exception. It’s not a personal grudge, or at least, that’s what he tries to tell himself, but  _maybe_  he’s still (only very,  _very_  slightly) pissed at the older for not letting him be a tree.

Through the zoomed camera, Woojin can see Seongwoo leaning closely towards Minhyun’s neck, and Woojin promptly looks away just before the thespian does anything indecent caught on camera. Jihoon must have a strong stomach, because he doesn’t look away, only chuckling when he realizes Woojin’s taken his attention off his phone. “What do you think?” Jihoon smirks, and Woojin, realizing the implications and having uncovered the truth, gags with the immaturity of an elementary schooler in the body of a high school student.

“Did you come here just to watch them?” Woojin asks before he can stop himself, but Jihoon doesn’t even look offended, only locking his phone and closing the pocket dictionary once more.

“Of course not.” Jihoon has his eyes in a straight line at the movie, but Woojin’s only looking at him, gauging his reaction. It’s a fruitless endeavor, and he makes a small whine of disappointment before following Jihoon’s suit and placing his focus back towards the movie. At this point, he might have to rewatch it at home, because he might’ve missed an entire scene. He blames Jihoon on this, because this is entirely his fault for supplying Woojin with something more interesting than the drama going on screen. “I came here for the film, and I got more than what I came for.”

Woojin grunts, like he wants to laugh, but he doesn’t want to, either. “And you just bring a pocket dictionary around for fun?”

“Not for  _fun_ ,” he denies, and breezily adds, “I’m studying for a test.”

Woojin can count on exactly one hand the people he knows who would study for a test by bringing a pocket dictionary with them to the cinema, and in that hand, only one finger being held up for Park Jihoon, but he’s not about to say that out loud.

Before Woojin can continue their conversation, Guanlin returns from his bathroom break (which was overtly long, and Woojin doesn’t even want to know what he’d done in the bathroom), and after sitting back on his seat, has taken to the activity of looking at Jihoon and Woojin with suspicion.

“What’re you guys doing?”

“Nothing,” Jihoon says, never letting his eyes stray from what’s in front of him. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Um, no, we were talking about something.” As Jihoon finally looks away from the movie just to stare at Woojin, he nearly forgets what it was he’d been about to say until he just ends up saying, “we were talking about scheduling. For the acting lessons.”

If Jihoon is surprised, he doesn’t let it be known. Instead, he smiles, almost knowingly, and it makes Woojin wonder if he’s a part of an inside joke that only he doesn’t know. “My bad. You said you were free tomorrow, didn’t you?”

Tomorrow is Friday, and Guanlin is the one who remembers Woojin’s schedule before Woojin himself does. “But Woojin has that once every two weeks dance club meeting tomorrow—”

“That’s next week.” It isn’t, actually, but Woojin would rather spend thirty minutes or so with Jihoon instead of listening to Justin Huang’s rants regarding the club’s budget. “We’re practicing after school.”

“Oh. Can I come?”

How nobody else has shushed them in the room (or how a worker hasn’t forced them out for causing the movie scenery disrupt) is a mystery that Woojin can’t solve.

“No, sorry.” Jihoon’s smile isn’t even apologetic, but, okay. “Didn’t Seongwoo tell you that he’ll be having you run lines tomorrow? Extra practice with Somi?”

“Ah, right!” Woojin has to strangle his laugh away from him at the realization that Guanlin remembers  _Woojin’s_  schedule instead of his own, and the dumbfounded face Guanlin’s wearing doesn’t do much to help. “Thanks for reminding—”

“Will you three just  _shut the fuck up_  and watch the movie?”

It’s the girl from before, the one who’d caused Woojin to feel brief sensations of terror, but this time, she’s looking at all of them instead of just Woojin. Although it’s petty, Woojin can’t help but feel the rush of satisfaction when he realizes Jihoon’s getting the burnt of this too, after slipping away scotch free during Woojin’s solo reprimand.

“Sorry,” Jihoon apologizes, wearing a smile that he probably deems as charming, like he hopes it’d disarm the girl’s anger. Like  _that’s_  ever going to work.

Except, it  _does_  work, and even through the darkness of the room, Woojin can spy a blush creeping on the girl’s cheeks. “It’s okay,” she squeaks, sounding the most timid he has ever heard from her (not a tough competition, but still!), and eyes Jihoon for a few seconds more before letting out a high-pitched squeal as she faces front once more.

Woojin wants to wrangle away the smug smile on Jihoon’s visage. Lucky son of a gun _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/uItsdonghyun) or [tumblr](fyodorred.tumblr.com), please!


	2. cd ii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, this is unedited. i'll edit this when everything's finished, and i'm sorry for the wait. (speaking of which, i've got an announcement, which you can read at the ending notes!)

**NOW PLAYING:**  Intro of CD 1 — [ _American Idiot_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iEtNpAXQ3xg).

“So, the first thing you want to do to improve my  _acting_ , is to see my playlist?”

Jihoon’s lips fall into a mixture between a frown and a pout; the former because it’s kind of what it is, but the latter because he  _also_  has the urge to jut out his lower lip, and ends up doing it halfway. It’s messy, unappealing, and somewhat of a bother: in the end he settles for showing his displeasure with his brows instead.

“Yes.” If Jihoon has any thoughts regarding the ridiculousness of the situation, he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he stubbornly pushes on his opinion and request, and gives Woojin the most intimidating glare he can muster.

Considering Jihoon’s baby face and the thick rimmed round glasses that aren’t scoring him any points in the intimidation factor, the glare wouldn’t even intimidate a baby. Obviously it doesn’t work on Woojin either, considering he now has a funny look on his face, like he’s trying to restrain his laughter—and it takes all of Jihoon’s might not to pout.

Damn him and his tendency for pouting. (This is likely attributed to the fact pouting  _does_  help him get what he wants, because honestly, if he can’t work intimidation then he might as well try another tactic, but some of it is also because Jihoon’s gotten so used to pouting at the face of the mirror that some of it translates to pouting during real life situations, too.  _Inappropriate_  real life situations, maybe, because Park Woojin’s barely a friend and is mostly an acquaintance, yet here Jihoon is, trying not to pout.)

“I don’t get why I’m doing this.” In the end, Woojin hands his phone over to Jihoon, who opens the music application almost immediately as he gets his hands on the gadget. The list of songs (an impressive amount of 3583, this Jihoon figures out after a particularly long scroll, long enough it gets him to start playing elevator music in his head) are diverse enough in genre: Woojin has some hip hop, indie, as well as movie soundtracks. Jihoon even spies a song from  _The Lion King_ , but wisely keeps his mouth shut, though fighting back a smirk is a more difficult task than what he’d expected.

He shifts through the songs in his head, although he still has the phone held in his hands; somehow, it just makes things easier to skim through the songs, and reorganize them to fit within his song organizing system that runs rampant in his mind. This process takes him a little under four minutes, and it’s four minutes Woojin seems to be bothered by, if Jihoon’s judging from the fidgeting and twitching of his dormant arms.

“Be patient.” Jihoon meant to keep the words recited in his head, but inadvertently the words fall through the crack. Rather than taking it back, he acts as if he’d intended for the words to be said, and flashes Woojin an enigmatic smile before resuming his retreat into his headspace, getting involved in the last few steps before he manages to find his breakthrough.

When he  _does_  find it, he snaps his fingers (unnecessary but at the same time, it’s nice for the effects!), and meets Woojin’s confused stare with a bright-eyed one of his own. “I’ve got the first step in mind!”

Woojin blinks. “O… kay?”

Jihoon strangles the urge to roll his eyes, reminding himself that this is the first time Woojin’s worked with him, and might not be used to his unorthodox method of teaching. There is, after all, a reason  _why_  he’s one of Seongwoo’s favourite pupils (or as Seongwoo likes to call them, his “little ducklings”) despite the fact he hasn’t headlined, or even performed, in a single one of his productions.

“I think you need to find your love for theatre.” At Woojin’s lost look, Jihoon chooses to resume, instead of staying silent for too long and letting Woojin get the wrong idea of what he’s attempting to get across. “I’m not saying I’m going to  _force_  it onto you, but you won’t be able to perform to the best you can if you view the entire thing as a joke.”

“Are you a mindreader?” Woojin practically leaps away from Jihoon, hands swatted in front of him, as if that might be enough to fit away a fortune teller. “Only Guanlin knows I still don’t take this thing seriously!”

Jihoon snorts, and this time, he doesn’t bother to fight the urge to roll his eyes, obviously unimpressed. “You’re dense as hell, you know that?”

“What gives?” Woojin says defensively, obviously taking it as a slight against his intellect.

“Anyone can see you’re still not giving this your all, Woojin,” explains Jihoon with as much patience as he can conjure. It’s not exactly much, but it’s still something, given he hasn’t resorted to catching the other in a headlock in frustration.“Like it or not, though, you have to suck it up and just… like it, I guess.”

Woojin crosses his arms in front of his chest. “And how am I supposed to do that?”

Jihoon casts a look at the list of tracks. “You listen to a lot of genres, but I can see that you’ve got a couple of punk rock songs. Did you know there’s a broadway version to some of Green Day’s songs?”

Considering the widening of Woojin’s eyes and how his arms fall slack, Jihoon would bet his favourite beret (the red one he’d bought in Paris two years ago) on the other not knowing. “Really?”

Against himself, Jihoon smiles. “Yeah. Here, take a listen.” He searches the song on Woojin’s Spotify application (bless him for having the premium membership, or else it’d be a pain to shuffle through the songs individually), and finding it, he hands over the right part of the earphone to Woojin, who puts it on without a second thought. Although Woojin darts his eyes expectantly on the other pair, Jihoon ignores it, and inserts it into his own ear.

In the corner of his eyes, he can see Woojin making a face, but he doesn’t voice his complain; so this could constitute as a win in Jihoon’s book.

He clicks on the song, and the result is immediate. Music blasts through the earphones in moderate volume, and at first, Woojin is visibly hesitant at the rendition of one of the most played songs on his phone (Jihoon had checked, and it was snugly seated on number 16, the first being the  _Batman_  theme song), but as the song continues to progress, he relaxes, and even begins to bob his head to the beat.

Jihoon succumbs to the gnawing urge to smirk in triumph. The first step of his mission, now accomplished.

“Not bad,” admits Woojin, albeit grudging. “I guess this isn’t too bad.”

“ _Not bad_ ,” echoes Jihoon with no little amount of incredulity. Woojin appears to be  _enjoying_  the cover, and all he says about it is ‘not bad’? Jihoon’s not saying that he calls bullshit, but he calls bullshit. “Guess I’ll have to give you homework until you can give a higher compliment than ‘not bad’.” He makes air quotes, finding sadistic pleasure in Woojin’s paling complexion.

“You’d give out  _homework_?”

“I have to get the job done somehow.” Jihoon shrugs, like that explains everything. It kind of does. “I can’t make you improve by leaps and bounds if we only do this, what? Once a week? Every two weeks? That’s why I said we should figure out a  _schedule_ ,” he stresses the word, and mirrors Woojin’s frown. It’s not as if he’s particularly thrilled about this either. “You’re not the only one who’s seeing this as a burden, you know. I have to take care of the costume designs as well, and helping you takes some hours of that off my agenda.”

Woojin gnaws his lower lip at the admission, and in contrast to the upbeat song, his crestfallen expression shows some regret. Jihoon memorizes the picture in his head, remembering to reference this when, at some point, they’ll eventually have to practice facial expressions while acting. “Yeah, you’re right,” he gruffly says, and takes the earbud out of his ear, letting it dangle slightly above the ground. Jihoon, affronted by the careless treatment of the device, tugs it up, and keeps it clenched on his palm. “I should’ve considered your situation more. Sorry.”

Jihoon would be lying if he said he wasn’t pleasantly surprised at the admission. Contrary to the rumors he’s heard of him, Woojin’s not as difficult as he’d been led to think; this might even be the first time in a while someone owned up to their mistake to him, and while that might not mean shit in someone else’s books, it means  _something_  in Jihoon’s.

While Jihoon is not much for moral codes and ethics, he knows better than anyone else when to appreciate effort when it is given.

“I see something in you, you know,” he says, and it’s so out of the blue that Woojin chokes on his own spit. “The same thing that Seongwoo sees, too. Don’t tell me you’ve never wondered why he gave you a pretty major role, even though you lack the kind of experience that nearly everyone else has.”

“Uh…” The other boy’s brows have furrowed together in puzzlement, and Jihoon sighs, taking the earphones off his ears and pocketing that (and his phone) in his pocket, before turning on his heel to face Woojin directly.

He makes sure to look at Woojin in the eyes when he continues. “You’ve got potential. It’s unpolished, definitely, and it’s going to be hard to dig out, but I think we can do it.”

“We?”

“Yeah, we. Why else do you think he’d assigned me to help you out?”

Woojin hums, but the corners of his mouth twitch, fighting a smile. “Are you a professional acting trainer on the side or something?”

“Or something,” affirms Jihoon, plastering the most innocent smile he can create. “Now, don’t forget to watch the following movies, they’re all musicals and you could stand to learn a thing or two—”

The groan Woojin lets out is loud enough that it distracts Jihoon from the words he’d meant to say. “I thought you weren’t serious about the homework thing.”

“Of course I was serious!” Jihoon eyes Woojin’s slouching posture, the awkward way he holds himself together, all to the hastily combed hair he proudly sports. “We’ve got a  _lot_  of work to do.”

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:**  Track 1 of CD 2 — [ _Eugene_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mMKP2Vcc6wA).

When Woojin meets Hyungseob on Monday, it’s purely coincidental. Neither of them share the same classes, and meet, with a stroke of what Woojin would like to call fate (except it probably isn’t and it’s just his ability to be at the right place at the right time, sometimes), a few steps short of the cafeteria.

What’s even more coincidental is the fact that the both of them are alone: Woojin doesn’t have Guanlin hanging off his arm (though that might be blamed to Guanlin’s absence on Monday, something about his throat being sore after practicing singing all day on Sunday), and Hyungseob, on an occasion that comes once in a blue moon, doesn’t have his regular group of friends crowding around him. No Justin Huang (and thank God for that, because Woojin has had  _enough_  of the blown up messages in the dance team group chat because of him), no Lee Euiwoong (who’s perfectly nice but also just so  _perfect_  in general it makes Woojin wonder if he’s an android sent to infiltrate their high school), and no Choi Seunghyuk (odd as it is, Woojin can’t remember much of him—maybe because he seems to be the most invisible in their group?). Last year, the group also had a senior named Zhu Zhengting, but he’d graduated—last Woojin’s heard of him, he’d just begun a traditional dance program in China.

“Oh.” Woojin stops short, face morphing into something resembling surprise. At first, it seems as if Hyungseob means to ignore him and continue walking, but at the last moment, his feet drags into a stop, and he shoves a small, hasty smile Woojin’s way.

“Woojin, hello,” he greets, raising his hand in a single wave. “Guanlin’s not here with you?” He cranes his neck, as if he thought he could find the giant stalking Woojin from behind. Hyungseob doesn’t find him, though, so he purses his lips, and returns to viewing Woojin with a ghost of a smile.

There’s something odd about the picture this paints. Maybe Woojin isn’t as close to Hyungseob now as he was in the past, but he’d like to think he knows Hyungseob well enough to spot a fake smile from a mile away. And this? This isn’t even as energetic as all of Hyungseob’s fake smiles tend to be, and that strikes a sense of worry in his chest, racing off speculations in his head.

“Hyungseob… are you okay?”

The smile (but could it even be called that?) fades away, and Hyungseob’s chapped lips narrow into a thin line, weighed down ever so slightly by a featherlight frown. His gaze wavers, like he doesn’t know whether to keep looking at Woojin or to retract it to the floor, but he takes a deep breath, shoulders squaring and fists clenching, and hardens his resolve to maintain eye contact with Woojin, whose whispers of worry in his head grows louder in volume by the second.

“Of course I am.” The tell of his lie is his own hesitance, because even if Hyungseob is a good actor, there are just some things that Woojin can see underneath. The flaky façade he wears like a mantle, right at the present moment, is one of them. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You…”

_You look sad._

The words scald Woojin’s tongue, and he wretches with the itch to say them. But something tells him that now might not be the time; so, against his own wishes, he forces himself to stay quiet, instead throwing on a smile so artificial it’d make someone from customer service proud. “Sorry, it’s nothing. Maybe I was seeing things.”

Something like disappointment flashes in Hyungseob’s face, but it’s gone almost as fast as it comes, and it leaves Woojin wondering if he’d imagined it in the first place. Maybe he’s just projecting.

“Where’s Guanlin?” Hyungseob says instead, making Woojin remember he hadn’t answered his initial question.

Laughing to hide his embarrassment, Woojin stretches his hand upward, and reaches for the back of his shoulder, rubbing it in a nervous habit. “He’s sick. Got a case of the sore throat, you know, from practicing and everything. You’re not with your friends?”

“No, they’re up on the roof. I wasn’t feeling heights, I guess.” Hyungseob laughs, and the sound is so soft that Woojin’s unable to resist the smile that creeps onto his mouth, lifting up its corners. “Do you want to eat together?”

Woojin gulps at the offer, and his mind is already coming up with all the scenarios of how things could go wrong—most of said scenarios being Woojin fucking up and making a mess of himself in front of his longtime crush. Knowing Hyungseob, the offer was meant to be a friendly invitation, because Hyungseob is all things nice and everything else that Woojin will never be, but  _still_. This is an opportunity. It could even be The opportunity, but Woojin knowing himself, would probably say something stupid before the bell rings, and maybe Hyungseob would never want to talk to him again, but—

“Of course!” the words come out in a flurry, and he slips over a syllable or two, but it’s still audible, if the renewed grin Hyungseob wears is anything telling. “If you want I could get us a table while you get your food?” Although the cafeteria is usually big enough to supply a place to eat for a majority of the student body, Woojin doesn’t want to take any chances. If he’s going to eat with Hyungseob, then he  _better_  get them the best seats the cafeteria has. Or at least, the remainder of the best seats that the cafeteria has, considering it’s been fifteen minutes since the lunch bell rang and by now, all of the good seats near the window (the view isn’t necessarily idyllic, considering it’s their basketball field, but it’s a nice place to get some natural light in) must’ve been taken; but if he runs, maybe he can get them one of the seats that isn’t right next to a dumpster or squished between, like, ten other tables.

Hyungseob blinks, but his grin never fades. “Okay, sure! I’ll try to hurry so you won’t wait up too long for me.”

Please, Ahn Hyungseob could take an entire year picking out his food, and Woojin would be the one to say  _sorry_.

But, since he can’t say that out loud without making his crush known to the world, Woojin settles for a weak smile, and swings a fisted arm over his chest in a gesture so awkward it makes him wonder what he’s doing with his life. “Take your time!”

Though unconvinced, Hyungseob warily drawls, “alright then.”

Luckily, there  _is_  an available seat that isn’t so shitty in its location, so Woojin practically leaps to take a seat, claiming the table as his. Theirs. Whatever. The sudden movement results in dirty glares from some others, and from the seat on his right, he can hear a girl muttering, “it’s that kid again, he’s so annoying.”

If the words hurt him, he doesn’t let it show, and settles for drumming his fingers tirelessly against the table while he waits for Hyungseob to finish picking out his lunch.

When Hyungseob waddles his way towards their table, he’s carrying two trays, and it takes Woojin a snap of Hyungseob’s fingers to snap him out of his trance, brain short circuiting as he realizes that Hyungseob even picked out Woojin’s food, unless he’s suddenly had his appetite increase tremendously and now needs to eat two full trays for lunch. “Is that for me?” he decides to ask, and promptly hating how hopeful he sounds. Woojin tries to bury the hope somewhere deep in the gravel of his heart, because if it ends up  _not_  being for him, he’s going to be the most humiliated he’s felt in months.

“Of course it is, silly.” Hyungseob laughs, his smile so radiant it drives sunflowers to shame. “I don’t know what you like, though. Or, what you like  _now_ , to be more precise. I picked out whatever I could remember you used to like back then—hopefully your tastebuds haven’t changed too much?” Even if Woojin’s tastebuds had done a complete 180, it’s  _Hyungseob_  who picked out his food, so even if Hyungseob asked him to eat anchovies—and he loathes them, really—he would’ve grabbed a mouthful and shoved it in his mouth.

Fuck, he’s hopeless.

“Don’t worry, I like it!” Woojin hasn’t even thoroughly scanned the contents of the tray, but he makes sure the words come out with enthusiasm, and lifts his tray off Hyungseob’s wavering arms. It’s only after he’s set the tray down on the table that he gets a proper look, and viewing the tray consisted almost entirely of protein with a little side of carrots as the vegetables, he decides that, yes, it  _is_  to his liking, and it’s not just because Hyungseob was the one who picked it out for him.

They eat, mostly in silence, save for the clangs that result from their eating utensils touching their plates and that one second where Woojin needed to pause to burp. (That was embarrassing as hell, and it was because Hyungseob was there; if he wasn’t, then Woojin would have little to no qualms about burping in public.)

“You know,” Woojin finds himself saying after the momentary silence that ensues after his loud burp, “I’m here for you. Just, you know. If you ever want to talk… or something, anything.”

“That’s sudden.” Hyungseob sips on the straw connected to his carton of milk, makes a noise of satisfaction at the taste, and peers at Woojin shrewdly. “What’s this about?”

“I don’t know.” Woojin  _does_  know, actually. Maybe he might not be able to place it, not  _yet_ , at least, but there’s something that strikes him as off regarding Hyungseob’s recent behavior. More subdued, and while being subdued isn’t a bad thing, it’s  _Hyungseob_ , who’s almost always personifying a bright ray of sunshine—that’s what worries Woojin, but if he spills all of this to Hyungseob at this moment, over lunch that’s barely edible and the only salvation of their taste buds being the drinks that weren’t produced by the school, that seems like shitty timing more than anything. “I just wanted you to know.”

Hyungseob’s mouth releases the straw, and he gently places it back down onto his tray. An undecipherable look crosses his eyes, yet, he still musters a lopsided smile. Weak, maybe. Shaky, almost definitely. But, it’s a smile, and as far as Woojin can tell, none of it artificial.

Right now, that’s enough.

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:**  Track 2 of CD 2 — [ _Another Night On Mars_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t75iai3jYi4) _._

Visiting Guanlin’s house after school doesn’t turn out to be as smooth sailing as Woojin initially expected. But then again, it isn’t as if he’d prepared himself for the onslaught of rapid fire Mandarin and the screeching that ensued almost immediately after he’d shown up on the doorstep, so, that’s something.

“You’re Guanlin’s friend?” a pretty girl who resembles Guanlin to a considerable degree asks him as soon as the house has settled back into a semblance of its regular normalcy, and she places her hands on Woojin’s shoulders, leaning in to inspect every detail of his face. Frankly, it makes him feel like he’s being inspected underneath a microscope, and small spaces like these (or lack of personal space, to be more precise) makes him uncomfortable, but he attempts to smile, still. Maybe it’s not as good of an attempt as he’d expected, considering the disappointed sigh that erupts from the girl almost as soon as he attempts the look.

“I'm Park Woojin, and yeah, I’m Guanlin’s friend.” Woojin wants to bow, to show some formality and proper manners, but if he does it in this position, he’d just end up bumping his head against the girl’s chest and that’s  _really_  not a situation he wants to go for. In place of that, he settles himself for a stocky nod of his head, hoping it’ll do the job. Not the most polite thing he’s ever done, but even that isn’t much competition.

The girl, who Woojin figures must be a few years older than him, gives him back his personal space after three more beats of scrutinization. Maybe she’s found whatever it was she’d been looking for, or maybe she’s just grown bored. Whichever the case is, Woojin’s just glad he has a wider space to breathe, now.

“Why are you here?” She narrows her eyes, cocking her hip to the side. If she really is Guanlin’s sister, then Woojin is shocked at how it seems like all the intimidating genes went to her, because frankly, the aura she emanates can make Woojin gulp. On the other hand, Guanlin is, as far as Woojin knows, a big baby stuck in the body of a giant teenager.

“Guanlin told me he’s sick.” He holds up the plastic bag in his hand, letting it dangle in front of the girl’s face, a rustle carried by the wind. “I came with food. I mean, if that’s fine. If not I could just go home.” That’d mean he’d also wasted the time he had spent earlier in the kitchen to brew soup, which probably doesn’t even taste that good (but as his mom would say, it’s the thought that counts), but he could always reheat it and give it to Guanlin at school. It wouldn’t be the end of the world.

The girl stays silent long enough for Woojin to start feeling awkward, standing right at the entrance of Guanlin’s house holding up a plastic bag, of which the scent of chicken broth is beginning to waft in the air. His arms are beginning to cramp, too, and he masks his discomfort with an awkward curl of his lips.

Right at the exact timing he returns his arm to its former position, she sighs, and moves aside to make way. “His room’s the one with his name on the door. I think he was napping, so… don’t forget to knock.”

“Oh.” Woojin coughs, and now that there’s proper distance between them, he bends his back into a quick bow. “Thank you!”

She eyes him for a moment, and, as if she’s found something in him that she’s been looking for the whole time, she lets a small smile to grow fondly on her lips. Woojin rubs his lower back as he gets himself back into an upright standing position, but makes sure to return the smile, wary as it might be. “Don’t mention it.”

True to her words, Guanlin’s room  _is_  the one with his name plastered on the door, and Woojin can recognize the wiry handwriting from a mile away; it’s even more obvious counting in the fact he has it written on red ink, making it contrast starkly against the plain paper it’d been scrawled on. Noise comes out from the crack of the door, but Woojin finds himself unable to discern whether the noise is from a movie, or if it’s music, or if it’s just his mind playing tricks on him; ever since he’s started consuming musicals, he may or may not have begun hearing music in his head. Which, you know, might  _not_  be the healthiest indicator of life, but it’s still something.

He raps the knuckles of his hand on the door. Once, twice, until it’s a whole cacophony of knocking—and now that he thinks about it, ‘a whole cacophony of knocking’ sounds like it could be the title of a cheap, third grade musical. (Yes,  _this_  is what theatre has done to Park Woojin: sue him.)

“Hold up,” he can hear Guanlin’s cry over the door, and winces when a thud, as well as a loud curse (maybe it’s a curse? It’s in Mandarin, but judging by the context, it sounds like it could be a curse), follows only a few seconds after. Eventually, however, the door swings open; on the other side is Lai Guanlin, with bloodshot eyes and dark rings forming a blue, purplish spot just a few centimeters underneath his lower lashes. Even his lips, usually plump and a healthy flush of red, are chapped and terribly pale. It makes for a picture that stabs a rush of worry into Woojin’s maternal instincts, which is pretty fucking weird, because he’s never really had maternal instincts (or never knew about it) before now.  _Huh_. “Woojin!”

Woojin must’ve failed to hold back a grimace at the sound of Guanlin’s voice—throaty, raspy, all the things that Guanlin’s voice usually never sounds like—judging by the crestfallen turn Guanlin’s expression has gone for; previously a sunny disposition, or at least, as sunny as someone down with sickness can muster.

Shockingly, it was a good try; or maybe, he shouldn’t be so shocked, because this is Lai Guanlin he’s talking about. The kid could look like a puppy even when his back is burdened by the weight of the world: or, in this case, the leading role. ( _God._  When did Woojin grow so fond of him? He’s getting soft, without a doubt; for some reason, though, he doesn’t find himself opposing the feeling as much as he’d had a few days ago.)

“You look awful,” he comments, and before Guanlin can further resemble a kicked puppy, Woojin offers the plastic bag filled with the soup by holding up the bag, pushing it closely towards Guanlin’s loose arm. “I made it. I mean, I don’t know if that’s what you’d like, and I’m not the best cook, but. I figured that’s the best I could do to help.”

Guanlin’s eyes widen as he takes the plastic bag into his hands, and he peers his head inside to check the inside. Woojin tries not to grin at the sight of Guanlin’s head nearly disappearing inside the bag, but he loses his self control the moment Guanlin begins to sniff the contents. “This smells really good!” he cries, although the noise comes out muffled from the plastic. “You made this all by yourself?”

“Yeah.” Guanlin lifts his head from the bag, and the clutch of his fingers tighten, like he’s holding something fragile. Considering it’s broth, it might as well be. “I picked up a few tricks from the kitchen,” Woojin says, as if this explains his ability to cook, and it does: being the only child to a mother who owns a restaurant, he’s had to help out a couple of times in the kitchen, and he’s also been taught a few tricks by the maestro herself. He’s nowhere as good as her, the flavor of his creations not as strong as what his mother can cook up, but he’s decent, and that counts for something. (Counts for something like  _college_ , when one day he’ll have to live away from home, and he won’t have to rely on take out or unhealthy instant food if he can make something for himself.)

“This is really nice of you,” compliments Guanlin, and his grin is exactly like the ones he wears when he’s healthy; the only difference lying in the fact that he might be paler than usual, his lips in worse condition. But it’s the same grin, and Woojin gladly returns it with his own. “Come in! We could play video games, if you want. Do you like video games?”

Woojin hasn’t played a video game in about five years, where he’d been playing against Hyungseob in the newest console (of the time) that Hyungseob had received for his birthday, and he doesn’t know the first thing about the games that his classmates rave on and on about nowadays. But, Guanlin’s eyes are filled to the brim with  _so much_  hope that Woojin doesn’t have the gall to deny him.

“I guess,” he supposes, and yeah, saying that was worth it if Guanlin’s face of delight is anything to go by. “Maybe you’ll have to walk me through it, though. It’s… been a while.” Would five years constitute as a while, or would it be considered as a pretty damn long period of time? Whichever the answer is, Woojin can’t think much on it, because Guanlin’s pulling him by the sleeve inside his room, long, thin limbs that make up a leg slamming the door shut.

For the first time, Woojin gets a clear view of what Guanlin’s bedroom looks like, and his initial thought is:  _oh, I’m neater than he is_. Not like he’d expected anything less, considering Woojin’s habit of cleaning up whenever he felt uneasy, or bored, and boredom is far from a stranger. Before Guanlin somersaulted into his life, Woojin might’ve even considered boredom to be his only friend. (Now that he thinks about it, that’s just… sad. And a little pathetic. Sadthetic.)

“I haven’t cleaned up in a while,” Guanlin says, with something that sounds something like embarrassment. He hastily throws a blanket over the mess covering his bed, an assortment of half-opened snacks and empty cans, leaving Woojin to wonder  _why_  he’d been consuming junk food if he was sick. “I mean, if I’d known you were coming, I would’ve! Really!”

“Guanlin, it’s alright,” Woojin assures, laughing as he does. “You said something about video games?”

“Oh! I did. Come on, sit here!” As Guanlin throws himself onto his bed (a Queen-sized with space patterned sheets that match the pillow cases), he pats on the empty spot next to him, and Woojin takes a seat, sitting crosslegged on the surface. By now, Guanlin’s started to rummage through a container of gadgets on the floor, only stopping after he finds the controllers. “Here you go,” he chirps, handing over one to Woojin. “Let’s see… I think I have a few newer games, and a few older ones, too. I’ve been playing the newest Injustice for a while, though. If you want, we could play that!”

Although Woojin has no idea what Injustice is, he finds himself nodding, succumbing himself to whatever fate lies ahead. He’ll probably lose in whatever it is they’re about to play, and he’s already accepted the fact; as if he’d stand a chance against Guanlin, who seems like an avid enthusiast of video games—contrasting Woojin, who tends to finds himself getting hyped over re-runs of superhero movies on the local channel. (Also,  _Dancing with the Stars_ , but that one is a family secret between him and his mom. And maybe Sejeong too, because she’s practically his older sister by everything but blood.)

He sits still as Guanlin gets the game set up, and when that’s done, he begins fiddling with the controller held within his hands as soon as the game starts running. To keep his mind away from his looming, imminent loss, he resolves to stare at the bag containing his chicken soup propped onto Guanlin’s study table, watching how the steam continues to emanate, still, and revels at how hot the water he’d used to make the broth must’ve been. “If you don’t eat it soon, you’ll have to warm it up again before you do. I think it’d taste weird if you ate it cold.”

“Really?” He’s never seen Guanlin stand up that fast before, and nearly jumps when the controller hits his arm in the quick movement it’d taken for the other to get up (and dropping the device in the process.) “I’ll have to eat it as I play, then!” Then, he’s gone, crossing the room in a straight dart just to pick up the bag. When he’s back and safely seated next to Woojin, the controller on his lap despite the fact the main page of the game has begun to greet them, he fumbles with the plastic bag and takes out the food carefully, the plastic spoon that Woojin had supplied following shortly after.

“Here, let me help.” Woojin opens the tray for Guanlin and sets it down on the bed, careful not to let any of the soup that’d managed to get on it to spill onto the sheets; that’d be a mess to clean up. Guanlin carefully dips the spoon onto the soup, and blows on it to subside some of the heat before precariously placing it onto his mouth, taking a small sip to taste it.

Instead of saying anything and alleviating some of Woojin’s nerves, he gulps it all down after the first taste, sighing in something that suspiciously sounds like content afterwards. “This must be the healthiest thing I’ve eaten all day.” Remembering the wrappers hidden underneath the blankets, Woojin’s not surprised. “It tastes really good, too! I didn’t expect it to be this tasty—no offense!”

Frankly, Woojin’s too amused by how quick Guanlin is to reassure Woojin to even feel offended by the unintended slight. Not that he says it, and instead settles for a pleased smile.

“You should be eating more healthy things if you want to get better, Guanlin.” Woojin sighs in exasperation, ignoring Guanlin’s pout. “Do you want Seongwoo to visit your house carrying, what, store bought salad because the star of his show can’t make it to practice?”

Guanlin’s jaw drops in horror. “He wouldn’t really do that, would he?”

“I don’t know.” Woojin fakes an innocent smile, and has to swallow down his laughter, though the shaking of his lips should inform anyone he’s lying; Guanlin doesn’t see it, however, and resumes to stare at Woojin with the eyes of a terrified teenager. “I mean, you know how he is…” he trails off, letting Guanlin’s imagination do the rest.

“You’re  _right_ ,” Guanlin whimpers, and promptly shoves a spoonful of hot broth into his mouth. For a whole second, he doesn’t take the spoon out of his mouth, and his eyes close at the temperature of the soup. Woojin eyes him with worry, but before he can do anything to help, Guanlin snaps out of the heat induced trance, takes a deep breath, and opens his mouth, letting the tongue bask in the relief from the cold air. “I have to eat healthier,” he says after the fiasco, resolve settling in his eyes like growing flames. “And I have to get better, so that Seongwoo won’t visit me! Could you imagine how bad that’d be? I—I’d even hide in my closet.”

He looks  _dead serious_ , to the point that Woojin, against his slippery will, finds himself bursting into laughter, bending down with a hand against his stomach at the image of Guanlin—tall enough to be taller than Seongwoo—stuffing himself inside his closet just because of a visit from the eccentric man. On one hand, Woojin would like to think Guanlin isn’t as dramatic or easily scared as this action might make he seem like, but then again, Guanlin  _is_  a baby; this might not be him overreacting, but him being  _himself_ , and somehow, that’s as terrifying as it is interesting.

“ _Hyung_ , why are you laughing?” Guanlin grumbles, putting on a sour face, even as he continues to devour the soup that Woojin’s made.

“Nothing, nothing,” lies Woojin, catching his breath after his fit of laughter. “Just keep eating your food, Guanlin.”

Guanlin’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “If you say so.”

He resumes to eat, and the bowl is empty in less than five minutes.

(Woojin begins to wonder if Guanlin literally  _inhales_  his food instead of eating it regularly, because the bowl had been big enough for him to stuff at least four spoonfuls from his wooden soup spoon.)

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:**  Track 3 of CD 2 — [ _Hard Times_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEB6ibtdPZc).

There aren’t many things that can surprise Park Woojin to the point of staggering, but coming into the dance club’s meeting room and seeing Park Jihoon right  _there_ , standing out with his neon sweatshirt and tanned orange joggers, is enough to get him to gape, even forgetting to close the door behind him despite Yerim’s annoyed shouting.

“You”—Woojin points a shaky index finger Jihoon’s way, who doesn’t even look like he’s moved by the reaction Woojin is showing—“what are  _you_  doing here?”

Jihoon claps his hands together, face contorted in absolute delight that Woojin just can’t relate to right now. “Great, you’re here. I’m here to help you with method acting!”

The statement is loud enough to attract unwarranted attention, namely from Justin Huang who has taken to looking at Woojin with a mixture of glee and confusion. “Method acting? Is that what you ditched club meeting last week for?”

“No!” Apparently, he sounds ridiculous enough that Jihoon’s looking at him in confusion and something that looks a lot like knowing. “… Okay, um,  _maybe_.”

“You didn’t have to go so far to lie about method acting,” comments Yerim, wrinkling her button nose. “If you got a boyfriend and you wanted to hang out with him instead of going to a club meeting, you could’ve just said so.”

“Yeah!” Justin’s quick to pick it up. “You didn’t have to ask him—poor guy, by the way, I feel bad for him—to partake in the lie, too. Shame on you, Woojin. Dishonor on you, your family, and your cow!”

“I don’t even have a cow—”

Samuel, who’s been staying silent next to Justin, finally speaks up in the middle of the stirring commotion: “I’m sorry about Justin, he’s been watching too many medieval era movies.” Figures.

Woojin shakes his head, as if that can shake the entire dance club  _and_  Jihoon away too, but unfortunately, they’re still there when he’s gone back to his silent, standing position. “Why are you really here?” he ends up asking Jihoon, sounding as dead tired as he is exasperated.

Jihoon rolls up the cuffs of his ridiculous sweater. Woojin doesn’t know much about fashion (correction: he knows next to  _nothing_  about it), but the voice of reason in his head is chanting at him to let it  _burn_. “I told you.” He sighs, patting the hem of his sleeves that now barely graze his elbow. This makes Woojin wonder if he’d done so to prepare himself for a fight, but then again, even Jihoon’s not that eccentric—or is he? Whatever the answer is, he isn’t dying to find out. “We’re going to do method acting.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’ve got to be in the club room, too!” Woojin says in a hushed whisper, still aware of the people that surround them. It’s not as if they’re not aware of his disposition in the theatre club by now, but still, it isn’t something Woojin wants to blow up; he’s already getting enough passing comments about him and leather jackets and greasy, oily hair (because apparently that’s the customary hairstyle of Kenickie) as it is. Does he need more? No—but maybe, when hell freezes over.

“ _Think_ , Woojin.” Jihoon’s index finger pokes his temple, and Woojin flinches away. It doesn’t deter Jihoon at the slightest. “What better way to pressure you into method acting than having you do it as  _Kenickie_  in the middle of something… Woojin-y?”

“No,” he refuses without a single ounce of hesitation, glaring at the smirking Jihoon. He wants to wipe away the infuriating smirk, but he remembers to keep himself in check, because getting into a scuffle with Park Jihoon over him being infuriating is highly uncharacteristic of himself.  _Thinking_  about the imaginary scuffle, however, isn’t something he’s above of. “Absolutely  _no_ t.”

“Come on,” Jihoon sings, and in his head, Woojin (very,  _very_ begrudgingly) would admit he doesn’t sound half bad. Though it does makes him inwardly question why Jihoon doesn’t participate in the actual performance, he lets the question sift to the back of his head—that’s probably an unimportant train of thought. “I thought you wanted me to help you polish your potential?”

“Well, yes,” confesses Woojin, raising his voice slightly, “but not like  _this_!”

“Go big or go home, Woojin.” Jihoon is enjoying every last second of this, if his strangled laughter and quivering shoulders are anything to go by. Right at this moment, Woojin decides he’s an infuriating little shit. “Next time, I’ll corner you in class, so might as well get things over now.”

“In  _class_?” Woojin says, obviously affronted. “Can you even do that?”

Jihoon snorts. “Trust me, you don’t want to know half the things I’m capable of.” He’s right, Woojin doesn’t want to know. Jihoon’s terrifying enough as he is, which is funny, considering he’s got the face of a baby and the stature of a shortie, his cherub cheeks not doing anything to help him look  _scary_ , but Woojin still finds him more terror inducing than someone along the lines of Ha Minho. The hidden depth, he figures, is what seems daunting. There’s something about Jihoon that just  _screams_  he’s capable of anything, maybe even hiding a body in the middle of the woods (and Woojin’s slightly unconvinced that this hasn’t happened before, but only  _slightly_ , because that’s how scary Jihoon can be), and Woojin would’ve resolved not to get on his bad side if it wasn’t for the fact he could be annoying as  _hell_.

“Fine.” He has to will away a snarl at how  _pleased_  Jihoon looks, and woefully ignores Justin Huang’s shrieking fit of cackles—if he wasn’t (very,  _very_ secretly and also in a moderately minuscule amount) somehow fond of Justin, Woojin’s sure he would’ve decked him by now. “… Do your thing.”

Jihoon links Woojin’s arm with his, and Woojin doesn’t even bother to resist. One way or another, Jihoon would get his way, and Woojin finds it less stressing to just go along with his whims. “I’ll have to borrow this guy for a while,” he says to the other members of the dance team, with a smile that Woojin would even classify as  _nice_  if he wasn’t already aware of the hidden meanings that every one of Jihoon’s smiles hold. “But when I get back, he’s going to be someone  _new_.”

“Are you taking him to a plastic surgery clinic?” Samuel asks, eyes wide.

Woojin uses his free hand to slap a palm over his face, groaning in embarrassment. Why is this his life, again? He’d lament over needing better friends, except he’s not sure what Jihoon  _is_ , hovering between the line of acquaintanceship and friendship in a way that he can’t quite figure out.

“Nope,” chirps Jihoon, unshaken by the remark. Woojin  _wishes_  he had that kind of composure with his own actions—he still thinks, mostly in the middle of class, if he  _really_  hadn’t forgotten to turn off the oven. “You’ll see.”

And, in the end, they  _do_  see. Jihoon isn’t a terrible acting coach, considering that was Woojin’s first experience of being actually  _taught_  by him instead of blasting music through the phone, and he explains things so clearly that Woojin wonders if he had a mentor of his own; except, that’d be ridiculous, because if he  _did_  then surely he would’ve been a performer instead of staying backstage. Even within the fifteen minute timespan he takes to work on Woojin, Jihoon all but barks out the imperfections within his posture and expressions, and by the time Woojin re-enters the dance club’s room, this time as the greaser  _Kenickie_  and not outcasted rebel Park Woojin, he finds it outstandingly easy to  _act_ , like Kenickie’s a part of him instead of being just a name, repeated countless times, on a piece of paper.

“You did great,” Jihoon compliments him once Woojin’s gotten down from the high of being Kenickie, and he has to blink a few times to remind himself that he  _isn’t_  an actual Grease character and is instead a normal high school student, but Jihoon smiles knowingly, like he knows the exact train of thoughts that Woojin’s having. If he  _did_  know—Woojin wouldn’t be surprised. “Like I said, you’ve got potential.”

‘Yeah.” Woojin laughs, and it’s euphoric as it is shocked. “I have potential,” he repeats the words in a daze, but can’t fight away the stupidly wide grin that breaks out on his face.

“And don’t you let any of it go to waste,” mutters Jihoon, so softly that Woojin barely picks it up. When he turns to ask what the other had meant by it, Jihoon’s already turned to get his backpack, slinging it over his shoulders. “I’ve got to go home. I’ll see you.”

Jihoon has taken three steps when Woojin catches up with him, his own bag haphazardly thrown over the crook of his neck. “I’ll walk with you!” he volunteers himself, and while Jihoon never pauses his steps, the curious tilt of his head speaks loudly enough for the them to hear. “You’ve helped me a lot today. Even though I didn’t want to, at first,” he mumbles, shamefaced. “Besides, maybe you’d like the company?” Woojin meant that to be a statement, he  _really_  did, but at the sight of Jihoon’s limpid eyes, it slipped into a question.

He’s not taken aback. He’s  _not_.

“The company could’ve been better,” teases Jihoon, faking a high-pitched whine, eliciting nervous laughter from Woojin. “But I guess you’ll have to do.”

Woojin’s not saying there was a moment before, but if there  _was_  a moment, then the statement had been enough to shatter it into little pieces strewn across the dirty high school floor. “What do you mean I’ll have to do? I’m perfectly fine company!” he defends, half-serious, knowing that Jihoon’s joking—but at the same time, he might be  _serious_ , and Woojin wouldn’t have known any better: he hasn’t known Jihoon long enough to recognize when Jihoon’s messing around and when he’s not. Even when he’s gotten to know the other more, Woojin would still have lingering doubts on Jihoon’s readability; the boy puts up a wall between what he shows and what he’s thinking of so strongly it’d put swindlers to shame.

“Are you, really?” Jiho.on scrutinizes him, taking a break of a few seconds from staring ahead. It doesn’t result in serious injury, though that could be attributed to the fact that the path they’re taking doesn’t have sudden turns or sudden appliances. Woojin and his previous misfortune of once hitting his head on lockers twice in a row can’t relate. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“Oi, Park Jihoon.”

Jihoon raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright,” he wheezes through his chuckles. “Oh, we’re here.” His tracks falter as the sight of the doorway looms ahead, the school gate a whole twenty steps from the immediate exit. (Woojin knows this because he’s counted it before; why? He doesn’t even remember, though he’d reckon it was boredom.)

“I’ll see you, I guess.” Woojin raises his hand in a wave, but instead of nodding, or even waving back, Jihoon looks at him quizzically. It sends a wave of unease down Woojin’s spine, like there’s something he’s missing. Is he supposed to smile?

“What, you’re not going to walk me all the way to the gate?” that’s what Jihoon says instead of goodbye, and Woojin feels his heart skip a beat—he wasn’t expecting that.

“Oh, I didn’t think—”

“… Woojin, stop.” A hand stops Woojin’s own from clambering to tie his shoelaces, because if he’s going to walk Jihoon all the way to the gate then he’d have to retie them, considering they’ve fallen loose at some point. He meets Jihoon’s face like this: the both of them stooped down, a smirk that reeks of amusement standing too close to the awkward, downturned pull of his mouth. “I was kidding. I can walk myself back.”

“I’m still not used to you,” admits Woojin, surprising himself with the courage he wrenches to help him not flinch away when Jihoon peers in. “I mean—I get that you might be the type to joke around or something with your friends, but we’re barely even civil, and—”

Jihoon puts his hands up in a universal signal for Woojin to quiet down, but Woojin has to bite down on his bottom lip to stop himself from laughing when Jihoon falls to the ground at the loss of balance that his hands had brought. “I know you want to laugh,” he mutters, and stands up from his spot on the ground, wiping away the dust that’d clung onto the bottom of his pants. Woojin follows suit, stretching his knees back to its standing position, sighing at the relief it brought. “Woojin, I’m going to make this blunt.”

“Um.” Woojin tries not to feel nervous, not that trying automatically translates to succeeding. “Okay.”

“Messing with you is fun.” Jihoon shrugs, like he hasn’t just made a statement that’s frozen Woojin’s stature. “I’ll stop if you want me to, though.”

“Is this like, a friendship thing?” Woojin manages to say through his nearly frozen tongue, and something that feels a lot like hope makes his chest warm. “Or am I reading too much into this?”

The louder, more realistic part of Woojin is skeptical of it being anything but the latter. Gaining two friends in the span of a few weeks seems to be  _too good_  for Woojin, because even having Guanlin stick around seems like nothing short of a miracle. Having Jihoon becoming his friend could even seem like too much; just last week, they barely talked, but if Jihoon finds himself comfortable enough to pull small jokes with Woojin, then—

“It’s a friendship thing, I guess.” Jihoon smiles, and he doesn’t know how much the words mean to Woojin, who’s beginning to feel the start of a wide, reckless grin. “Are you okay with that?”

“Did you even need to ask?”

At the wavering of Jihoon’s pupils, alongside the repeated opening and closing of his mouth—like he has something to say, but just doesn’t know how; apparently, he did.

“I am,” Woojin assures, and this might be the happiest he’s looked in front of Jihoon, but now he has another  _friend_. And friendship is fragile: one wrong move and he could find himself returning to his friendless disposition, and even if he was used to it before, now he’s gotten used to the banter, the smiles, the  _chatter_  that constant company brings. What’s terrifying is how he doesn’t  _know_  if he could ever go back—doesn’t know what would become of him if Guanlin (or now, Jihoon) decides to step away from his life, leaving Woojin all alone, back to square one. It’s not dependancy. Woojin functions well enough without his friends, but they still mean  _something_  to Woojin, maybe lesser than the extent of what he thinks of his mother, but certainly enough for him to care about them more than he cares about himself. (Is that healthy? He has the feeling it isn’t, but by now, Woojin never thinks twice about putting others’ happiness above his own.

In Sejeong’s words, he’s only three steps away from being a martyr, but the last step for that is dying, and she’d pull him back from the jaws of death if he ever so much as  _thinks_  of doing that.

“Are you sure?” Jihoon’s mouth twists into something that isn’t a frown, but isn’t a smile either. “No take backs,” he warns, but Woojin doesn’t even have the mind to think about taking the words back.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

Woojin’s never done this before, but he gives it a shot; raising his hand in a fist, holding it expectantly in the air, until Jihoon gives in with a sigh, bumping it with his. The notion is far from grand, and it’s simple, maybe even listed amongst the most basic forms of friendship, but Woojin smiles, anyway; it makes his chest feel a little lighter when he spies the semblance of a smile on Jihoon’s chapped, but somehow, still pink, lips.

“See you tomorrow?” Woojin has the feeling he’s sounding way too hopeful, but Jihoon doesn’t seem to mind, if the casual nod is anything to go by.

“Yes. I’ll see you.” Jihoon waves at Woojin one last time before he leaves, never looking back. If he did, then he might’ve seen Woojin standing still in his place, never moving a single inch despite the ticking clock (there are dishes to clean and clothes to wash and hang to dry, after all), watching Jihoon’s retreating back until he disappears from Woojin’s line of sight.

_Why was I even_ staring _at him?_  Woojin finds himself questioning, but the answer is right there, niggling the back of his mind, stubbornly unspoken.

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:**  Track 4 of CD 2 — [ _The Middle_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oKsxPW6i3pM) _._

On the following day, Jihoon begins to sit with Woojin and Guanlin during lunch. Their table is far from crowded, considering it’d fit five people at the very least and they’re only a trio, but with Guanlin adamantly squishing himself next to Woojin like a territorial puppy, therefore leaving Jihoon to sit across them with dry amusement showing all over his face, it might as well be a party.

“So he’s friends with us now?” Guanlin’s been playing with the food on his tray with his plastic fork for nearly five minutes now, eyeing Jihoon like he’s a threat to his and Woojin’s friendship. “I was never informed.”

“Maybe that’s because you  _literally_  just got back to school after taking a break for a couple of days?” returns Jihoon, smiling wryly. “Nice to have you back, Guanlin.”

Guanlin’s eyes narrow in further suspicion. “… Thank you,” he says warily, and points his index and middle finger simultaneously at his eyes before facing them towards Jihoon. “I’m watching you.”

This is getting ridiculous, Woojin decides, and brings down his own palms to lower Guanlin’s raised fingers. “Guanlin, stop it,” he sighs, trying not to let the younger’s wounded look get to him. “Just because I’ve found another friend, doesn’t mean I’ll forget about you all of a sudden.” Admittedly, the words are more embarrassing said than thought, and Woojin refuses to look up from his plate of pudding (at least, it  _looks_  like a pudding, he hasn’t grown the balls to actually taste it) after he says them. Still, an unusual silence blankets around the table, and when he finds the courage to look up, both Guanlin and Jihoon are staring at him; the former in wide-eyed respect, the latter like he’s about to laugh his ass off at any given moment.

“Besides,” he tries not to stutter, and succeeds, mostly, “I think you’d like Jihoon.” He’s actually not sure of that theory at all, but might as well say it, considering his words have the potential to weigh significantly on Guanlin’s overall image of the other student. “He’s…” Annoying but somehow easy to get along with, most of the time? “Jihoon’s eccentric.”

“ _Eccentric_.” Jihoon raises his brows, high enough they disappear underneath his fringe.

“What, you’ve got a better word?” Woojin retorts, shoving a spoonful of his salad into his mouth. At the stale taste, he tries not to spit it out, and mostly succeeds; only choking and looking like he wants to barf when he swallows it down, maybe, but none of it are catered off his system. So, there’s that, at least.

“No, I guess,” sighs Jihoon in defeat, right before fixing Guanlin a slight grin. “You should listen to Woojin. He thinks you’d like me.”

Woojin rolls his eyes.  _Of course_. “No need to be condescending about it either, Park.”

“Who said I was?” Jihoon fakes an affronted look, going far enough to stick a hand over his chest as his face morphs into that of good ol’ scandalization. “ _Park_.”

“Okay, stop it,” protests Guanlin, as if he hadn’t been the one to voice his suspicions less than five minutes ago; either way, not so long ago that Woojin’s plate of pudding is still untouched, and he doesn’t have the urge to take even a small bite of it—maybe he’ll just give it to someone who does, but then again, both Guanlin and Jihoon have taste. “If Woojin approves of you, then I guess you can’t be that bad,” he admits grudgingly, corners of his mouth weighed down by a deeply set frown. “But I still don’t trust you.”

“Never asked for your trust.” Jihoon salutes, completely off-handed, and out of context it would’ve made Woojin to scratch his head. “The two of you  _are_  coming to practice after school, aren’t you?”

Guanlin nods fervently, and his tray shakes at the jittering of his legs. “Of course! I missed a day or so, but I’m not going to miss any more.” His lips set off into a determined purse—Woojin smiles fondly at the sight. “Did I miss anything important, though? Woojin hasn’t told me.”

“Hm.” Jihoon’s brows furrow, and he begins to twirl his fork around the soggy pasta that’s only half-eaten on his plate. “I don’t know if this would count as important, but it’s… a little worrying, I guess?”

For some reason, Woojin doesn’t have a good feeling about this. The pudding that suddenly wiggles in his plate agrees, too.

“Hyungseob hasn’t been performing like usual,” Jihoon spills, and sighs in something akin to frustration. “Woojin, do you know what I’m talking about?”

Numbly, Woojin shakes his head. “Um… no, I’ve never seen him perform before,” he says, quiet and subdued. Call him a bad friend, but he’s never watched any of Hyungseob’s productions before—although Woojin does know that Hyungseob is, arguably, the star of the theatre club, and shines the brightest when he’s on the stage. Maybe the latter is more of secondhand information than anything else, but Woojin has never doubted Hyungseob’s capability. He might not seem intimidating or particularly threatening, but there’s always been a fire in Hyungseob’s eyes that burns and courses blindingly.

If he’d been searching instead of just looking, maybe Woojin would’ve noticed the way the fire’s starting to burn out.

“I’ve worked with Hyungseob since middle school. This is the first time I’ve seen him so unenthusiastic about something.” Jihoon frowns, and the twirling of his fork slows down. “It’s just, weird, I guess. Usually he’d be bouncing off the walls about memorizing his lines or begging me to show him the sketches of his stage outfits, but he’s been quiet. Maybe there’s just something going on—like, too many assignments, or something.” But even through the spoken lies, Jihoon’s face made of contorted worry says it all; even he doesn’t believe what he’s saying. “It’s been a busy start of the year.”

Even Guanlin, who’s usually the last to pick up on the atmosphere of a situation, realizes the worrying implications. He’s stopped bouncing his legs, and has begun to chew on his lip, the way he always does when he begins to fret.

“But he’ll be okay, right?” Guanlin asks, big eyes peering at Jihoon, who begins to look uncomfortable.

“I don’t know,” Jihoon says, and puts down his fork. He smiles, but there’s no happiness in it, only a sad, lingering kind of sorrow. It sets off some alarm for Woojin, who begins to suspect that Jihoon might even be able to  _relate_  to Hyungseob’s current troubles, whatever they are—and the previous thoughts he’s had before suddenly seem less ridiculous than he’d initially crossed them off to be. “I really don’t know.”

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:**  Track 5 of CD 2 — [ _You’re the One that I Want_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7oKPYe53h78) _._

The first scene they work on is the scene of Somi and Guanlin (as Sandy and Danny, respectively) at the beach, and Woojin is happy about this for a total of two things: the first is he’s absent from this scene, meaning he can spend the time watching them rehearse and get chewed out every few minutes after a mistake—that’s usually not even  _big_ , but apparently, Seongwoo is a ruthless perfectionist or something?—with the worry of  _himself_  getting chewed out still weeks ahead (he’s heard rumors of how Seongwoo can make them work on one scene for longer than three meetings, and that amount of dedication thrown into practice must be why the theatre is as acclaimed as it is). Second, it’s because he can essentially spend a few hours doing next to nothing, just sitting around and pretending he isn’t  _not_  paying attention to the spectacle shown at the front.

“There’s too little  _passion_!” Seongwoo wrangles his hair out of frustration, and the two crew closest to him back away, cautiously. “I should’ve done a chemistry screening before the casting,” he complains to himself, groaning in frustration. “Somi, you have to at least  _sound_  like you’re in love! Guanlin, show more interest, what could be more interesting than  _her_ ”—he points his finger at Somi, who’s rolling her eyes like this is regular behavior, which, it probably is—“that you can’t even maintain eye contact longer than three seconds?”

“Sorry,” Guanlin stammers, looking absolutely terrified. Woojin sympathizes, kind of, but he wouldn’t want to be in Guanlin’s shoes either.

“I’m not  _asking_  for your apology,” Seongwoo says, as if he’s talking to a child, “I’m asking for your  _reason_.”

All of a sudden, the incessant chatter dies down, and everyone in the room places Guanlin in their focus. Woojin feels a little bad about this, considering how red Guanlin’s turning out of embarrassment, and  _wants_ to look away, out of politeness—but then again, it wouldn’t make much difference, so he forces himself to look on. His heart, however, pushes a silent prayer for Guanlin’s ability to form a coherent sentence.

“I’m not used to looking at strangers in the eye,” says Guanlin, so quiet that if the audience weren’t silent nobody would’ve heard it at all. “I’m sorry, I can try again.”

Instead of nodding or rushing Guanlin off to try again, Seongwoo sighs, and hangs his head low. “Why do I feel like the bad guy now,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know what, why don’t you take five? If you’re not used to looking at strangers in the eye, then go and chat with Somi. Be… not strangers. Don’t tell me you haven’t at least done that.”

When Guanlin only ends up smiling sheepishly, Seongwoo’s mouth forms an incredulous ‘o’, plainly for the world to see as he’d already risen by then. “Yeah, take  _ten_. Get to know each other. Ask about your favourite colours, childhood traumas, or anything. But when I call the both of you back, then you’d better have gotten closer, do you hear me?”

Somi raises three of her fingers in a lazy salute, drawling, “ _aye aye_ , Captain.” She slings an arm over Guanlin’s frozen shoulders, and drags him alongside her as they trudge down the stairs to access the ground from the stage. “You’ve heard the man, time to hear all about my childhood fears!”

Guanlin looks so bewildered that Woojin has a difficult time fighting away a fit of laughter, but the two of them are out of his line of sight soon enough, what with Somi being speedy in her retreat and therefore, by extension, Guanlin as well. Although they might not be visible anymore, Woojin can hear Somi’s loud voice going on and on about being chased by a clown in a McDonalds when she was five, and Guanlin’s quiet sounds of ‘oh’s and ‘really?’s; it is, at least, nice to hear Guanlin hasn’t fainted from the shock. Somi, after all,  _is_  a motormouth; Woojin hasn’t experienced it first hand, but she’s dropped by to the restaurant a couple of times, and whenever she had, literally  _everyone_  in the vicinity could hear about her stories.

That’s probably how Woojin has known about the McDonalds clown story for a while, now that he thinks about it.

“Woojin, get up here.” He jolts in his seat at Seongwoo’s sudden prompting, and glancing at the ground, Seongwoo’s waving his fingers at Woojin, almost impatiently. Scratch that almost, actually— _definitely_  impatiently, if the way he’s begun to point at his wristwatch too is of any indication.

There’s really nothing good that can come out of this, but Woojin fight the urge to run away, and clambers down the steps. At some point, one of the other students had given him a pat on the back, whispering, “good luck, man.”

Would he have said thanks if he’d known who it was? Yeah, probably, but he didn’t; too busy in his attempt to simultaneously distract himself from what would almost certainly be his imminent premature death, and steel himself for the worst.(Multitasking isn’t one of Woojin’s best skills.)

Standing in front of Seongwoo, no matter how little the height difference between them is, does a fine job at making Woojin feel small in his skin. Maybe it’s the cutthroat confidence carried by the older, or maybe it’s because Woojin has an ingrained fear of him now (along with pint sized admiration, not that he’s admitted that out loud), but whatever the case is, Woojin is intimidated as hell, and Seongwoo doesn’t even blink.

“Let’s have you run a few lines,” he announces, but instead of smirking or doing whatever else that Woojin would’ve expected him to do, he smiles,  _warmly_ , at that. “Jihoon told me you’ve improved. I’m looking forward to see it.”

In the background, someone begins to whistle, and Woojin would cut off his own leg if it were anyone  _but_  Jihoon.

“Okay,” Woojin says, because it’s not as if he has much of a choice in this matter. “Let’s do it.” He rubs the palms of his hands together, hoping, almost  _achingly_  that he’s making a good show of confidence. (Because, really, who’s he fooling? He’s anything but.)

“How about running the same lines as before?” Again, Woojin doesn’t see another option, so he resigns himself to nodding, only able to hope it won’t end up as big of a failure as it was before. “Alright, go up to the stage. Hyungseob, you too.”

Hyungseob, who’d been sitting at the front row, seemingly absorbed in his lines, nods his acknowledgment and places down his script. He doesn’t even look shaken, but then again, it’d be odd if he was—Hyungseob’s been in theatre for such a long time that even Woojin doesn’t remember when he first started.

“You can do it,” Hyungseob cheers on him as he breezes past Woojin, and somehow, gets to the stage before Woojin does. Woojin, who follows Hyungseob’s lead, smiling for the smallest reason— _Hyungseob_  cheered him on, and if Hyungseob believes Woojin can do it, then Woojin  _has_  to succeed, doesn’t he?

(And, succeed he does.)

Unlike the first time, Woojin finds it easier to say the lines, and not just  _recite_  them; he finds it within himself to embody the character he’s playing, forgetting, even for only two lines, that he’s not Park Woojin—he’s Kenickie, and he’d better play a pretty damn convincing Kenickie, if he doesn’t want any of the effort he’s put in this to go to waste. Although Hyungseob never breaks character, after they’re done successfully maneuvering through the whole scene—instead of barely scratching the surface like last time—he looks at Woojin with no little amount of astonishment, and the corners of his eyes crinkle in a smile.

“Great job,” he mouths, discreetly flashing Woojin a thumbs up with his arm still lowered by his side. Woojin sees it, though, and he smiles—big enough that his snaggletooth shows, big enough that giddy exhilaration threatens to rear its hold on his composure.

“Wow.” Seongwoo’s claps resonate through the silent theatre, and Woojin finds his smile shrinking, nervous about the thoughts that he might have. The large grin Seongwoo sports, however, is giving him the inkling that maybe, he doesn’t need to worry so much over this.“ Jihoon wasn’t lying. You’ve improved. There are still some things we can work on,” he admits, and during any other occasion Woojin would’ve turned this to the moment he’d resort himself into a nervous breakdown, but he’s just so  _happy_  that none of his hard work went to waste that he barely reacts. “But, we’ve still got the time for that. I  _knew_  Jihoon would’ve helped.” Seongwoo’s smug smirk that reeks of superiority says it all:  _I told you so_.

Woojin finds Jihoon’s eyes in the crowd. On the surface, he seems relatively unhinged, his face stuck in the half serious, half amused expression that always seems to stick onto it, but when Woojin peers closer and tries to find a spark of  _something_ , he can see the smallest hint of pride gleaming in his eyes.

* * *

**NOW PLAYING** : Track 6 of CD 2 — [ _Slower Than Ever_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lA-XbSS9sa4).

Sejeong is making a big fuss out of nothing.

(Okay, so, maybe  _not_  nothing: Jihoon’s coming over in a little less than fifteen minutes, considering they’ve already agreed to the time and place for their next acting practice, and Jihoon’s given Woojin so much help that referring to him as ‘nothing’ feels… plain  _wrong_.)

“You’ve never told me you had a boyfriend,” she accuses, a pout sticking out petulantly on her lower lip. “Honestly, I thought you would’ve at least  _asked_  me for advice before asking someone out—you  _were_  the one to ask him out, didn’t you? Also, another thing I’m surprised about, is how it  _isn’t_  that Taiwanese friend of yours. He’s pretty cute, you know. Clings to you like a puppy.”

“ _Guanlin_?” Woojin splutters, because the image of him and Guanlin dating is, while not necessarily  _detestable_  (he has eyes, and just like anyone else with eyes, he can freely admit that Guanlin is handsome, though more on the cute side of the handsome spectrum), it still isn’t something he’s even considered. But it isn’t as if Woojin has ever imagined dating anyone who isn’t Ahn Hyungseob—the only exception to that would be Wonder Woman, which is a few steps over the impossible: she’s fictional, and even if she wasn’t, why would a  _superhero_  date someone among the likes of him?

Sejeong rolls her eyes in good nature, and nods slowly. “Yes,” she stresses the word, rolling the syllable over her tongue in the manner of someone talking down to a child. “Guanlin. You don’t have to sound so surprised, you know. I was counting on it happening sooner or later, but I guess I was wrong,” she sighs wistfully, and looks into the distance. Woojin cranes his neck just to see what she might be seeing, but he can only see the empty parking lot.

“It’s really not what you think,” Woojin still tries, for a reason he doesn’t exactly understand. It’s probably futile, now that he thinks about it, and he might’ve just wasted his breath—but then again, there’s no way to go but down from this, and the least he can do is at least  _try_  to set the record straight (pun unintended); with the keyword being strongly emphasized on ‘try’. “We’re just friends. And this isn’t my boyfriend coming over!”

“You’ve never  _had_  anybody coming over before Guanlin,” Sejeong sniffs, adamant on staying true to her incorrect theory. “And you’ve never talked about this guy before—just suddenly said, completely out of nowhere, that he was coming over! Doesn’t that sound fishy, even to you?”

“Well, I mean—wait,  _even to me_?”

At his late realization, Sejeong laughs at his face, breathy cackles rapidly coming out of her mouth. Woojin groans, pressing his forehead on the counter, and it doesn't help much—though he can’t see what’s happening  _now_ , he can still hear the laughter, and that’s all there is for him to know Sejeong is, arguably, having the time of her life at the expense of his embarrassment and misery.

He’s brought out of his self imposed brooding when Sejeong pinches the shell of his ear, resulting in an undignified yelp. “Oi!” Woojin hisses, but when he picks himself up, Sejeong is looking  _past_ him, something calculating in her expression. “… What’s going on,” he warily begins, but when he turns to look at the door,  _then_  everything makes immediate sense.

Jihoon, in all of his bespectacled and outrageous fashion (outrageous is Woojin being  _nice_  about it) glory, is standing by the door, a laptop bag clutched closely to his chest. He’s looking around the interior, mouth closed and eyes continuously darting, remaining unassuming even when Sejeong says, loudly enough to be heard by the entire restaurant (judging by the sudden stares and glares directed at them), “you sure know how to pick ‘em, Woojin!”

_Why._

“Jihoon!” Woojin yelps, feeling the desperate need to say something along the lines of ‘don’t listen to Sejeong she’s all about delusions!’, but decides that  _isn’t_  worth it, considering Sejeong has the ability to deprive him of her sandwiches for the remainder of the week, month, or maybe even  _year_. The horror. “I didn’t expect you to get here so quickly,” he says, after taking a glance at the clock on the wall, indicating Jihoon’s arrival at least five minutes earlier than their designated time.

Either Jihoon hadn’t heard what Sejeong said or he’s easily ignoring it, because he freely laughs, and approaches Woojin with brisk, purposeful steps. Woojin knows why he’s walking so quickly when he settles the laptop bag on the counter with a groan, and morphs his expression into one of sympathy. “Were you holding onto that all the way here?”

“Yeah,” Jihoon says breathily, and takes a few moments to stretch his arms around. “It’s all good, though. My house actually isn’t too far away from here—my laptop’s just way too heavy.”

“What model is it?” Woojin tries to make a concrete shape out of the bag, as if it’d give him the answer to his question. It doesn’t.

“Um,” Jihoon utters smartly, unzipping the bag and taking out the electronic device with his palms, slick with the sweat that comes from having them clenched. The model is familiar enough to Woojin, who’s seen his fair share of laptops from his laptop hunting days at least three years ago, but Jihoon’s laptop model, while old and most likely heavy as fuck, is still better than the secondhand excuse of a laptop Woojin has underneath the blankets in his bedroom. So. “It’s this.”

Woojin doesn’t make a pretense of inspecting it when he already knows what it is, so he nods, nothing resembling a proper expression alighting his visage. “That’s cool. So, what did you want to do today?”

Jihoon opens his mouth to answer, but any noise that comes out of his mouth is drowned by Sejeong’s loud, interrupting cough.

“I think introductions are in order,” Sejeong says in a warning tone, which isn’t really  _threatening_  as much as it is teasing, and Woojin wonders why he likes her so much when she’s practically bound to keep pulling this kind of shit whenever more of his friends come over to the restaurant. (Which, he thinks, is kind of surreal: before Guanlin, he didn’t even have a friend from school to drop by, and now, he’s got  _two_. Maybe even three, in the future, if things go okay with Hyungseob.)

“Oh, right.” Woojin rubs the back of his head, meeting Jihoon’s curious gaze with a resigned, almost  _apologetic_  one of his own. He’s sure he’s never going to hear the end of this from Sejeong until the day he gets an  _actual_  boyfriend (or girlfriend, gender doesn’t really matter to him)—and wouldn’t that be the day, meaning, the day that’ll never come?—and the last thing he wants is to get Jihoon dragged into the mess, too; but Sejeong’s a woman on a mission, and he’s more afraid of the consequences that’ll have if he doesn’t introduce them than what will come once he  _does_. “Jihoon, this is Sejeong, she’s my…” Woojin struggles to find the proper word amidst Jihoon’s raised brows and Sejeong’s half smirk, half smile. “She’s one of my closest friends. And Sejeong, this is Jihoon, a friend from school.”

“It’s so nice to meet you, Jihoon!” Sejeong sweeps in for a loose hug, effectively startling Jihoon into frozen submission. It doesn’t last long, however, because she pulls back just as fast as she leans in, leaving the recipient of the hug to blink, almost dazed, as if wondering,  _did that even happen?_

“Nice to meet you too,” Jihoon responds, and wears a smile, though it’s more weak and confused than anything. Woojin pities him, if only a bit. “Woojin didn’t—”

“Didn’t tell you about me?” guesses Sejeong, receiving a subtle nod from Jihoon’s end. “Don’t worry, he makes it a habit to not tell his friends about each other. I didn’t even know about you until he mentioned it to me this morning.” She shoots a pointed glare at Woojin’s direction, and Woojin shrinks away, wishing nothing more than to merge with the wall right now. “The both of you are here to work on something, right? Don’t let me keep you.”

Fast as he can, Woojin grasps Jihoon’s wrist, and leads the both of them away from the commotion that is Kim Sejeong. He can hear her laughter from behind, as well as Jihoon’s small noises of confusion, and forces himself to focus on nothing beyond the road that leads the both of them to the living room. (This is when he wishes a back entrance, or any other entrance that immediately leads to the ‘house’ part of the building rather than only the restaurant, existed—maybe one day he'll have it built, when he has enough money to do something like that.)

As soon as the both of them are in the same room as Woojin’s favourite couch made of worn leather and years of use, he closes the door behind him with a kick of his legs, and tries not to fumble under Jihoon’s stare. He’s not  _flustered_ , he’s just…  _just_ , a bit taken aback, that’s all. Dealing with Sejeong tends to do that to a person, no matter how many years of experience Woojin has under his belt.

“The two of you aren’t alike at all,” Jihoon finds himself saying, and Woojin smiles faintly.

“Yeah,” he easily agrees, and takes a seat on the couch. Jihoon follows, plopping down next to Woojin almost awkwardly, hands propped on his knees. “So, what did you want to work on today?” The change of subject is appreciated enough by Jihoon, considering he beams, bright enough that Woojin feels the need to shield his eyes. (He doesn’t.)

Jihoon manages a chuckle, but it’s not one that leaves Woojin feeling assured, per se; it’s more of a chuckle that gives promise of something torturous to come, and it sets Woojin on edge, almost effortlessly. “We’re going to work on your physicals!”

What. “But, we’re  _acting_ , what does physicality have to do with this—”

Without any shame whatsoever, Jihoon presses his index finger over Woojin’s lips, and all Woojin can think of is,  _holy shit, when did he get so bold?_  But then again, Jihoon’s always been bold (or maybe more along the lines of unpredictable), and Woojin was just never close enough to notice. Now, however, is a different story altogether.

“You’re going to have to do stunts, and dances. Having a good physical form is the basic necessity of scoring a decent role,” explains Jihoon, and okay, Woojin gets it now.

But, still: “I’m a dancer. I’d like to think I’m in good shape.”

“Oh, right.” Jihoon blinks, but shakes himself out of it, and winds up grinning from ear to ear. “There’s always room for improvement! Now, drop to the ground and give me fifty pushups.” Seemingly out of nowhere, he digs a stopwatch out of his pocket, and before Woojin can register it, has clicked at the top of the object, starting the countdown. “Come on! We’ve only got four minutes and fifty seven seconds left!”

At the end of it all, Woojin’s panting heavily and he’s sweating enough to drip onto the floor, which is  _disgusting_ , but then again, it’d be impossible  _not_  to sweat: Jihoon’s idea of physical training is doing fifty push-ups, or sit-ups, or any other move within the span of five minutes. If you fail, you’ve to start all over again, only this time, with the addition of  _ten_  more. It’s  _hell_ , and it’s excruciatingly painful to both Woojin’s pride as a man and his muscles, because he can tell he’s going to wake up with sore muscles and nowhere short of feeling like literal  _shit_.

“You are,” Woojin manages to gasp out, limbs spread all over the carpet and his body temperature feels too hot, even when the air conditioner is cranked up to its highest setting (and it’s ultimately going to be  _his_  fault when the room smells like sweat instead of air fresheners, but, whatever), ignoring Jihoon’s almost calculative look as the other stands over Woojin’s collapsed form. “A  _nightmare_.” 

“I’m an  _effective_  nightmare,” Jihoon corrects Woojin, pocketing the stopwatch and bending his knees to further seal the distance between the both of them. It doesn’t do much, considering Woojin can barely claw a hand at Jihoon’s face (and Jihoon can evade it with the movements of someone who wasn’t put through rigorous training, unlike Woojin), but it’s still something. “I thought you said you were in good shape?”

Woojin manages a groan. “It doesn’t mean I’m athletic enough to do all of  _that_ , what the hell. Besides.” Woojin props himself into a half-sitting position using his elbows, and levels Jihoon’s stare with a ferocious one of his own. Their noses almost touch, so Woojin scrunches his. “What kind of stunt requires  _that_  kind of athleticism?”

Jihoon, unfazed by the proximity (Woojin, who’s now realized how close they are and is currently trying to force away a tomato red blush, wishes he could say the same for himself), shakes his head sagely. “You never know. Actors can get themselves into difficult situations—it’s a tendency, I guess.”

Something about the way Jihoon says it makes Woojin feel as if Jihoon had experienced something like that  _himself_ , instead of being a spectator, as it would’ve been considering his position that requires him to stay backstage. There’s just a knowing look in Jihoon’s eyes, starlike in quality now that Woojin can see them up close (and it’s always nicer to see them like this, instead of the passing stares he always gets whenever they cross each other in the hallways), and behind it, he can see traces of sadness, as well. Woojin might not be the best in social situations, but he can untangle emotions from others easily—at the price of often unable to figure out what is it that he  _himself_  is feeling, and often, not knowing what to do with the knowledge: but this is different, or at least, that’s how Woojin wants it to be.

He’s friends with Jihoon. He can  _help_  Jihoon with the sadness, and it’s a privilege that he’s never had before.

(And somehow? The prospect of it is more daunting than it is appealing, but then again, changes, when they are great, never come easy.)

“Speaking from experience?” Judging by the way Jihoon’s expression freezes up, as if clogged, Woojin figures, a little too late, that he should’ve been more cautious when approaching the subject. Regret sinks onto his stomach, and it only deepens when Jihoon unbends his knees, and moves further away from Woojin. Creating distance between the both of them, a stern and silent reminder, for Woojin, that with someone like Park Jihoon, this won’t be easy. Hell, maybe it  _shouldn’t_  have been worth mentioning—it could’ve been a trick of the light, for all he knows.

When Jihoon finally says something, he cuts through the silence like a very sharp knife, looking at the coffee table instead of Woojin—or anywhere near Woojin, which, Woojin’s not going to lie, stings; even if only a little. “What experience? You mean staring at actors getting into messes while I sketch my designs?” Jihoon sneers, and it doesn’t look ugly, that attributed to the fact that it’s Park Jihoon sneering and Woojin doubts Jihoon could do anything to make his face, traditionally handsome and maybe even pretty, look hideous.

(Cringeworthy, maybe, but never anywhere close to ugly.)

“Sorry.” Woojin’s not sure why he says it, but if it’s enough to get Jihoon to look at him again (and it does), then that’s a good thing, he surmises.

“It’s alright.” Jihoon’s stomach rumbles at that exact moment, and he places a palm over his stomach, rubbing it in big, jagged circles. “I’m hungry. You’ve got a restaurant, right? Feed me,” he orders, and Woojin, shaking his head in exasperation, barely stops himself from rolling his eyes. “That’s the least you could do to repay my acting lessons.” He opens a palm at Woojin’s direction, looking like someone who’s asking for money, and Woojin scoffs.

“You’re still paying for your food. It’s called a  _business_  for a reason.”

Jihoon pouts. Woojin can’t believe himself when he  _dares_  to think that the sight of it isn’t something he completely abhors.

It’s… actually kind of cute. In a weird way, because there’s no other way for him to consider Park Jihoon pouting as something cute. Cute is reserved for things like kittens and Ahn Hyungseob,  _not_  Jihoon.

As if he’s ever going to admit it.

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:**  Track 7 of CD 2 — [ _Go the Distance_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m6v_gOmVJ4I).

Guanlin is too young to have a boatload of regrets. He’s barely even sixteen, and he still has his prime years way ahead of him: it wouldn’t make sense if he finds himself clouded with the weight of past decisions or having his choices come back to spur him away from sleeping at night, but, if there’s something that he finds himself doubting from time to time, it’s his own ability to command the stage.

Before he received the leading role, that had never been a problem. Guanlin was someone who stayed behind the scenes. The most he did to make himself shine was through a mathletes competition, and even that was when he still lived in Taiwan, way before he moved to South Korea—here, he didn’t even have an extracurricular activity to note, and he hadn’t been planning on making the best out of his high school years (and how could he, when he was practically assaulted with comments regarding his accent or his lack of noteworthy Korean skills nearly every day?) up until Woojin happened. Woojin somersaulted into his life, dragged Guanlin away from the wretched clutches of being bullied by knocking some sense into the bully himself, and while Woojin is adamant, never tiring of repeating that Guanlin doesn’t owe him anything, there’s something that Woojin doesn’t seem to understand:

When Guanlin sets his mind to something, then there’s likely nothing that can draw him away from the decision. Woojin might think Guanlin doesn’t need to repay his good deed, and maybe this is a matter of cultural differences that cause a difference in upbringing and, eventually, ideology, but Guanlin knows, with a certain kind of madness that only comes from being too sure about it all, that if Woojin hadn’t been there, things would’ve gotten worse. He hates it—hates thinking about the ‘what could’ve beens’, but in a situation like this, it’s more difficult not to consider the possibilities than have them dangled in front of him whenever he finds himself devoid of any other thoughts.

“You’re getting the lines right, and that’s good,” Seongwoo is saying to him, and Guanlin forces himself to keep everything else at bay, to simply focus all of his attention onto the older man as he goes on with his harangue. “But you lack the passion behind it. I can see that you’re trying, and that’s good, but you’re not trying hard enough.”

_Not trying hard enough._  How hard is Guanlin supposed to try, then? He wants to say something. Wants to mention the lack of sleep he's been getting, wants to mention the stress the memorization has put his mind under, taken it on a toll; but he bites his tongue, and forces himself to nod, because Guanlin signed himself up for this. He should've known the consequences from the beginning, and he's not sure if he even has any right to complain—being able to score a lead role in his first production should be something he's  _grateful_  for, but instead, here he is: tired, stressed, and maybe a little bitter.

"I understand," he says instead, no matter the other sentences that linger on his tongue. "How do you think I could improve?" Being a proper, civilized student is more difficult than Guanlin ever thought. He has a newfound respect for those who can handle the harsh criticism thrown at them with a smile; Hyungseob, for one, appears to be good at that, though he'd peg it's due to the experience.

Seongwoo frowns, and rubs his thumb over the non-existent cleft of his chin. Maybe it's a side-effect of watching John Travolta and the very, very existent and apparent chin cleft that he has. Or maybe it's just a habit and Guanlin's being ridiculous about all this because he's petty. "I'd say keep practicing, but this is more of a matter regarding  _how_  you practice, and not how long." Out of all the things that have come out of Ong Seongwoo's mouth, this is, surprisingly, pretty wise.

"Then what do you suggest me to do?" Guanlin's trying not to sound as peeved as he is, truly, but judging by the amused look on Seongwoo's face, the effort might be more futile than anything. "I... I just don't know why you're still set on me being the lead, when it's already been a little over a month, and you've already seen that I'm just not that good." Because he's a teenage boy and teenage boys have a tendency to get embarrassed when they're telling the truth in a manner that's nowhere short of earnest to the person who's causing the problem, Guanlin blushes, and has to force himself not to stare at the ground.

He half expects Seongwoo to laugh. Say a word or two to brush off Guanlin's worries. What happens, however, is different: Seongwoo  _smiles_ , and it's full of understanding, and it only serves to deepen Guanlin's blush. "I've seen your potential, Guanlin. You could be even better than this if you'd just... let go." At the scrunch of Guanlin's nose, Seongwoo chuckles. "Sorry, that wasn't the best expression, was it? I'll be honest—I'm terrible at heart to hearts, you could ask my boyfriend that if you need further confirmation, as long as you don't tell me I'm the one who admitted it myself, and. I've never gone through what you're feeling," he continues, blunt and unrelenting in his approach to the matter. "I'm an acting prodigy. I've  _always_  been good at this.

Guanlin's not sure if he's supposed to feel better or worse by the pep talk, but, keeping in mind Seongwoo's prior warning of being terrible at heart to hearts, he finds that it's now easier to take all of this with an open mind. Seongwoo and being emotionally available might not make a good match, but Seongwoo and forcing himself through something that's obviously uncomfortable and a subject he can't necessary relate to just for the sake of getting a point through to his students, works much better than the former assumption.

"But I've been in the theatre industry for a while. Long enough to encounter my fair share of different people." He grows a smile; and it's fond, almost reminiscent, and Guanlin wonders what he'd be seeing if he could see what's going on inside Seongwoo's head right now. A tangle of memories, or maybe a list of names rapidly going through his head; perhaps something else entirely, too. "You're not the first person I've met who doesn't know what to do with their potential.

Was that supposed to be inspiring, or offensive? "Er," Guanlin mumbles instead, because saying 'thanks' to that sounds more like he's being self deprecating on purpose. Moreover, he's just confused, and he's not sure  _where_  exactly Seongwoo is going with this. He's unpredictable, and Guanlin likes things better when he can predict them—maybe this is something he's gained from all those years of viewing things from a more technical aspect, as someone who dabbles in the field of mathematics more than the arts, and in the world of numbers and technicalities, he's always liked things better when he knows he can figure them out in a more concrete sense. Seongwoo is none of that. The easiest way for Guanlin to describe Seongwoo in two words is  _art personified_ , and Guanlin's not sure how he's supposed to deal with that.

"Just as I've met them," Seongwoo carries on, completely ignoring Guanlin's subtle interruption, "I've also seen the way they've dealt with it."

"And how?" A pause, and Guanlin manages to strangle his willpower into continuing, "how do they deal?"

Seongwoo's smile is secretive. It doesn't make Guanlin feel comfortable at all. "All of them have different ways of dealing, of course. Everyone is different, aren't they? This applies to stage actors as well!" he sings the last few words, and hey, his singing voice isn't  _bad_. Then again, that should've been expected: Seongwoo is, after all, a theatre actor. He must've had a few musicals under his belt.

Guanlin is nothing but blunt, and he's tired of having to find things between the lines, so he doesn't manage to find any constrain within him. He can't decide if that's a good thing, or a bad thing, but it's not as if he's been decisive enough on a noteworthy edge lately. Last decision he's made without any further questioning was repaying Woojin, and after that, everything's decorated with incessant question marks. "Am I supposed to gain anything from this, or?"

For the first time in their conversation, Seongwoo's more dramatic side as a theatre teacher returns with a splendor, as he gasps dramatically and has a hand clutch over his heart. On his visage is a wounded expression, and Guanlin does his best not to scowl. He's never been good at masking his emotions, though, so while he doesn't necessarily  _scowl_ , his poker face is enough to send a blast of (metaphorical) frost right at Seongwoo's nose.

"Young Guanlin, you're  _wounding_  me with your lack of faith in me," he sniffs, and does Guanlin bat an eye? No, not really. "Considering we're still in the early stages of preparation, and your best buddy Woojin has someone helping  _him_ , I've decided that you're going to have a mentor as well!"

This is either going to end up on a splendid note, or it's going to leave everything burning in chaos with hellfire. He can feel it in his bones.

"Who's going to mentor me?" Guanlin asks, warily. He'd be more enthusiastic if he knew for sure that the person who's supposed to mentor him in the future wouldn't be as, uh,  _extreme_  as Seongwoo. But, he doesn't.

"I know a lot of people." Judging by the amount of followers Seongwoo has on Twitter (Guanlin woke up one day to the surprising notification that his teacher had begun to follow him, which,  _okay_ , was weird and all but he'd been more floored to see the thousands of people following Seongwoo, making his fifty-six followers seem like nothing), Guanlin doesn't have any doubts about that. " _Who_  would be a good mentor for you?"

...  _You're the one who suggested I get a mentor in the first place,_  Guanlin thinks, resisting the urge to slap his palm on his face.

"Ah!" The gleam in Seongwoo's eyes is saying he's just gotten a breakthrough, and Guanlin gulps down his nervousness. "I've got just the person. Have you ever heard of Kang Dongho?"

Well, from his few hours spent watching the TV channels when he has nothing to do or when he's just in the mood to procrastinate, Guanlin doesn't know a Kang Dongho, but: "I know a Kang Hodong…?"

Seongwoo barks out raucous laughter (barks, because there's really no other way for Guanlin to describe it without any of it losing its original quality), doubling over, and his laughter's loud enough to echo in the empty biology classroom they're using to practice after theatre hours are officially over. Speaking of theatre hours being officially over, it seems like it's getting late, judging by the dark, almost orange yellowish light that manages to filter through the creme curtains, and Guanlin needs to be getting home soon before the streets become too terrifying, the shadows too long for him to walk through the road without getting his imagination in places where it really, really doesn't need to be.

"Good one," Seongwoo wheezes, still trying to control his laughter. "But I wouldn't recommend you to say that in front of him—I mean, you definitely  _could_ , but that's your choice. I'm just trying to coerce you into making wiser life decisions."

"I wasn't really planning on saying it to him anyway," Guanlin says, because he isn't the type to do so. Even with Woojin, he doesn't find himself joking around too much, though he can figure that some of it's attributed to the fact that joking in Mandarin is a lot easier than joking in Korean, but it isn't as if Woojin's Mandarin is good enough for them to have a proper conversation in. (And, no, just repeating things like 'what's your name?' and 'good night!' don't really count.)

"You're no fun." Seongwoo pouts, and Guanlin just really, really wants to go home. "He's a famous rising theatre actor, known for his vocals! He does the musical genre pretty well, but not better than me." Guanlin just manages to stop himself from sighing. "As I was saying, though, he owes me a favor, and what better way for him to repay it than teaching one of my students?"

"I guess."

Seongwoo frowns, and means to give a fist at Guanlin's shoulder, but Guanlin barely avoids it. "Sound more enthusiastic about it, won't you," he says—Guanlin doesn't. "I'll have to make the call later, but I'm fairly confident he'll be up for the job. Stay behind after practice tomorrow."

Like he doesn't already, Guanlin notes, thinking back to all the times he's stayed behind after everyone else has gone home just to get some more hours of practice with Seongwoo. He doesn't want to complain too much about it, though, even if said practice takes away some time for him to play video games after school, or hang out with Woojin, because he  _knows_  why it's necessary. It doesn't mean that Guanlin has to enjoy it, however, because practicing with Seongwoo is literally just running the same lines over and over again, being evaluated and scrutinized for his every gesture, and going home with an empty stomach and matted down pride.

"Okay, I got it. Can I go home now?" Guanlin sneaks a look at the clock on his lockscreen. It's nearing 6PM, and he has a chemistry test to worry about for tomorrow. He hasn't studied at all, which is his own fault, but he  _needs_  to make up for his lack of studying, somehow; his mother made him promise for his grades not to slip even when he busies himself with theatre, and if there's something Guanlin dislikes, it's going back on his own word. (Maybe that's why he's so adamant on trying his best for his role, no matter how much the process tires him, and makes him the weariest he's been since practically forever.)

Seongwoo waves him off. "Sure. Be sure to get enough rest, alright? Wouldn't want you to get sick during practice."

That's the reason why Guanlin has started taking vitamins, even if it's the kind that's likely to be made for kids (it might be for all ages, and when he was at the counter, he'd lied and said he was buying it for his younger sibling—plot twist, he's the youngest of his family!), and the vitamins help. They manage to be enough for him to still be able to practice acting, study,  _and_  function without having to devour caffeine on a daily basis, so. It works.

(Guanlin comes home to piping hot soup for dinner, cooked by his older sister, and that's better than any kiddy vitamin he can think of.)

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:**  Track 8 of CD 2 —  _[Just U](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gigORGNGnwY)._

In a way, Seongwoo envies his students, but at the same time, the last thing he wants is to go back to the days when he hadn't received his degree in acting, and has to go through the excruciating process of having to do college applications all over again. He misses the  _youthful_  aspect of acting (not that he isn't youthful now, because he isn't even  _thirty_  and as far as actors go he's undoubtedly on the younger side of them), and by that, he means this: he misses the days when he'd been in high school and practicing for productions that, while not necessarily unserious, doesn't have the kind of nerve-wrecking pressure that official productions tend to give someone.

The most stress he'd ever received from a high school production was that one time when he nearly set his own costume on fire, and he'd received an earful from the head of the production as well as the costume director (to this day, Seongwoo still has nightmares of Kahi's wrath, because god  _damn_  that shit is terrifying at the very least, and blood curling at its best), but aside from that, the rest of his high school theatre life was smooth-sailing. Some of it Seongwoo attributes to the glaring fact that  _he_  makes things smooth-sailing, the way things always are when you're talented and good looking and people would be damned if they wouldn't give you an easier ride through life. Most of the 'difficult theatre' stories Seongwoo has aren't from himself, but rather (and namely), from his friends: if it's anything short of perfection, Seongwoo can't exactly relate, because his horror stories mostly stem from his conscience and worries of not being able to live up to expectations.

It's not necessarily something he flaunts, however. Seongwoo practically  _thrives_  on the image of him being some kind of visual god who's all rounded enough to be an acting legend in the future, and insecurities don't have a place in the image that he's built for himself. The only people aware of that side of him are his parents (because could you ever really hide anything from your parents?), his boyfriend (not his first boyfriend or significant other, but certainly the first one he's taken seriously enough to open up to), and Kang Dongho—out of these three, the last one was honestly a complete and total accident, because Seongwoo and Dongho were never exactly what one might consider as close friends. Some people would've even considered them as  _rivals_ , what with Dongho always being a step ahead of Seongwoo when it came to musical productions during high school (there's a reason why Seongwoo is stuck with the roles of Shakespearean protagonists and Dongho's always received the cooler, more modern roles like Tony from  _West Side Story_ ) due to his superior vocal skills that Seongwoo was never quite able to surpass.

At some point, Seongwoo considered the both of them as rivals too, at least, until they stopped being 'rivals' and started being proper colleagues; a duo to be reckoned with, capturing the hearts of the audience and achieving the most out of their thespians from high school, the both of them getting accepted into different universities in the same field of study, and eventually parting ways on a note much better from what they'd started with.

"You've got that look on your face."

Minhyun's index finger rests on the tip of Seongwoo's nose, almost poking it but not quite, and Seongwoo's eyes flutter into focus. The both of them are curled up on Seongwoo's couch, a movie that Seongwoo's stopped paying attention to serving more as background noise than actual entertainment, and Minhyun's glancing at Seongwoo with a kind of perception that Seongwoo's never seen anyone else have.

(He's totally not biased, by the way. Totally, definitely,  _not_.)

"What look?" Seongwoo resolves to humor Minhyun, although he already has an inkling on what Minhyun means.

"The look where you're thinking about something too hard and it becomes more of a pain than it is a random thought," Minhyun says, eyes stern as they meet Seongwoo's lazy, near unfocused ones. "Tell me."

Seongwoo sighs, and smiles faintly. "I'm thinking about Dongho."

"Oh?" Minhyun quirks a brow. He sounds unamused, and it's only then that Seongwoo realizes how wrong it must sound, so he immediately crosses his arms together as an 'X' in front of his chest, shaking his head adamantly.

"Not like  _that_!" he cries in protest, although it's drowned by Minhyun's laughter. Minhyun's probably enjoying every last second of it, considering it's not very often that Seongwoo makes a fool of himself and—ugh, who's he kidding, the two out of ten times that Seongwoo manages to pull something stupid, it's always with Minhyun. "I've told you about Guanlin, haven't I?"

"Raw potential, doesn't know what to do with it, probably needs a lot of help if you want to make the Grease production at least halfway decent?" Minhyun jots the words together, and Seongwoo nods, resisting the urge to grin because those words are exactly the ones he'd used to describe Guanlin. Minhyun's just quoting him. "Yeah, I remember him. What's he got to do with Dongho?"

"Right now? Absolutely nothing." Seongwoo figures he should just continue if he doesn't want Minhyun to look so dryly unamused. "But, I'm thinking of getting Dongho to help him out. I mean, he needs someone who can teach him how to  _use_  that raw potential, and my potential's always been... polished."

Minhyun sighs, and rests the palm of his hand on Seongwoo's knee. "You're full of it, Ong," he murmurs, but the smile he wears is enough to show he's not exactly agitated by it. They never would've gotten into a relationship if Minhyun wasn't able to deal with Seongwoo's general personality, but somehow, Minhyun is able to tolerate Seongwoo  _and_  keep him in line, when needed. It's almost magical. "That doesn't sound like a bad idea. Have you called Dongho? Last I heard, he just finished his shows for  _Gone With the Wind_."

And, a fact that Seongwoo's neglected to mention: Minhyun also knows Dongho, because the both of them went to the same university, and technically, Dongho's known Minhyun longer than Seongwoo has. Is probably closer of a friend to Minhyun than Seongwoo was before they dated, too, but that's a different story consisting of a musical club and other mishaps that Seongwoo still needs the full details of, to this day.

"I'm thinking of calling him now," he announces, and scrolls through the contact list on his phone until he finds Dongho's number. Dongho's contact name on his phone is 'dongho boy', complete with the emoji of a tiger, and he might've been slightly drunk while saving the number on his phone and never bothered to change it after, because honestly, he's not wrong. He taps on the button featuring the phone, signaling call, with no hesitation, and waits for the other to pick up. Meanwhile, Minhyun's taken to tapping on the speaker option, because obviously, if Seongwoo's going to talk to Dongho, Minhyun's going to make sure he gets a few words in too; sometimes, Seongwoo even wonders if Minhyun cares about his group of friends more than he does with Seongwoo. (The answer to that, however, is that Minhyun cares for them both on equal ground. It's just easier to care about his friends because they aren't as difficult and infuriating as Seongwoo, which, you know. True love, and all.)

Four rings in, Dongho picks up, and the speaker crackles for a moment; it makes Seongwoo wonder if Dongho's outside, where the wind seems to be strong, at the given moment. "Hello?" A crackle follows, but Seongwoo doesn't need to strain his ears to listen, and he only turns up the volume.

"Dongho!" Seongwoo greets, loud enough that Minhyun jerks away from him with a dirty glare. Sorry, Seongwoo mouths, much to his boyfriend's apparent bemusement. "Hey, buddy, how've you been doing?"

"I've been alright." Dongho's voice is almost quiet compared to the background noise, and Seongwoo hears the telltale noise of a car's honk. He imagines Dongho to be at the park right now, which kind of serves away from his notice because he doesn't know why someone would willingly spend his time at the park at night when it's cold and the best thing to do is snuggle up and maybe watch a movie and fall asleep in the middle, but just because he and Dongho are friends, doesn't necessarily mean Seongwoo understands him down to the T. "Seongwoo, you don't do social calls," Dongho cuts to the chase, something Seongwoo can't say for himself. "What's going on?"

Seongwoo aims an affronted glare at the phone. Dongho can't see it. "What are you saying? I've done social calls before."

"Yeah. You mean the time you called me just to lie to our old high school teacher that you weren't coming to her wedding because you had diarrhea?"

Not one of Seongwoo's greatest moments. He winces, and Minhyun's shoulder shake with silent laughter. Seongwoo's embarrassment is Minhyun's joy.

"Alright, that was  _one_  time," he meekly defends himself, resisting the urge to bring up one of Dongho's less than savory moments in retaliation. That, Seongwoo knows, wouldn't help him with his case at all; he might be difficult, but he isn't socially averse. "You caught me. Dongho, I've come to bargain." Seongwoo tries to slip in a reference to a movie he watched a while back, but judging by Dongho's momentary silence, the other likely doesn't get it.

"Fine, I'll bite. What do you need? Also, is Minhyun there?"

This is the time Minhyun takes to make his grand entrance into their previously two-sided conversation: "Dongho! I was wondering when you'd notice."

On the other line, Dongho chuckles. "Figured if Seongwoo was on the line, you'd be, too. You should consider giving him more space," he jests, and Minhyun looks three seconds away from taking the bait to stir up some more conversation, and while Seongwoo usually wouldn't mind that, right now it'd just draw the topic away from what Seongwoo  _really_  needs the conversation to be about, so he chooses that moment to interject.

"I'm going to need you to teach one of my students."

For the first few seconds, all he can hear is the sound of Dongho breathing, and it's enough to drive Seongwoo nearly into asking if the phone line hadn't suddenly malfunctioned in the middle. But, when Dongho laughs, almost incredulously, that's when Seongwoo knows his request had been delivered well enough. "You're their teacher for a reason, Seongwoo. Why would you need me around?"

"Because I feel like this student of mine would be more of your specialty."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dongho doesn't sound offended. Only curious, the way Dongho tends to be, though most people would grasp confusion on his face as something more sinister; it can't really be helped, considering Dongho is someone who seems very much intimidating at first glance, but Seongwoo knows underneath the tough first impression, he's really not scary at all. Even Minhyun would scare Seongwoo more, although that  _might_  be because Minhyun is the one who has the authority to make Seongwoo sleep on the couch.

"It means, he needs a mentor who knows what he's going through. Remember when you just joined the theatre?"

Dongho groans. "Yeah, it was a nightmare. You've got a mini me running around?"

He tries to merge Guanlin and Dongho's face together in his head, and succeeds enough that Seongwoo laughs, much to Minhyun's affronted look and the noise of questioning on Dongho's end. "Sorry, sorry," he says once he's calmed down, and rears himself back to the topic at hand. "I wouldn't really call him a mini you, per se, but the both of you have something in common. You've both got a lot of potential. Difference is, you know what to do with it, but he doesn't," Seongwoo admits, and maybe he'd been a little reluctant in mentioning Dongho's potential, but it's not necessarily difficult. There's not enough bad blood between him and Dongho anymore for him to have to force out a compliment when it's due.

Dongho is silent, and that silence is enough to get Seongwoo to consider the possibility of Dongho saying no. For Guanlin's sake, he hopes the other would agree. "You owe me," he reminds, voice soft, but hopefully audible even through the abundance of background noise on Dongho's part.

"I suppose I do," Dongho says, and Seongwoo bites back a grin. "I'll help you with the kid. I don't have anything to work on right now too, so you've got the timing right, for once."

"Great!—huh,  _for once_? What's that supposed to mean?" he demands, and Minhyun doesn't bother to hold back his laughter this time, freely expressing his amusement to the point he burrows his head into Seongwoo's chest. (Is Seongwoo complaining? Hell  _no_.)

"Nothing," Dongho tries to pull this off as innocent, but Seongwoo knows better than to trust him, no matter how plain he might sound. He's an  _actor_ , for goodness' sake, faking emotions like that should come as easily as a breeze. "Call me back tomorrow, I can drop by in town on Friday. Bye!" He hangs up before Seongwoo can get another word in, and Seongwoo's left staring at the phone in his hand, a little bereft, but definitely not in a bad mood because of Minhyun's close proximity. If there's something to keep him away from a childish mood, it's always Minhyun, because he has that grounded quality to him that manages to root both himself and Seongwoo firmly on the ground.

It's kind of a good thing.

"You didn't speak a lot to Dongho," he finds himself saying, once enough time has passed since the phone call ended for the movie to progress to the credits, and Seongwoo realizes just how little he paid attention to it. He can barely remember the beginning, much less the plot.

Minhyun yawns. "Yeah. I figured I could call him later to catch up, you probably needed that conversation more than I did."

Seongwoo's eyes form half-moon crescents as he smiles widely, enough for the lightbulb that shines over them in the room to seem dull in comparison. "Aw, you're invested in my kids too, aren't you?"

"Since when did you start calling Guanlin your kid?" Minhyun sounds amused as he says this, but the question does have some weight to it, considering Seongwoo's rarely found himself actually  _referring_  to any of the theatre kids, whether they're Guanlin or Hyungseob or even Doyeon, as 'his kids.' At some point, he must've grown some kind of attachment, because apparently, spending too many after hours with high school students tend to do that.

"Since now, apparently," he easily surmises, much to Minhyun's apparent exasperation.

"One of these days," Minhyun starts off, and shifts into a more comfortable position, with his legs draped over the arm of the couch and the back of his head firmly positioned on Seongwoo's stomach. "You're going to bring one of your students home and adopt them as your kid. And it's going to bring you into a lot of trouble with their actual parents," he predicts, and it's as horrifying as it is startling that Seongwoo can actually see some of that  _happening_. When did he turn so soft, is the question that he should be directing to the universe.

All Seongwoo says is: "I have a feeling you might like Woojin. He's... definitely something."

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:**  Track 9 of CD 2 —  _[Fake Happy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kBmlbzW1-yc)_.

Woojin sits in a circle with Guanlin on his right, and Jihoon on his left. It's not a  _big_  circle, but it's roomy enough for him to stretch his legs, which, is something he  _deserves_  after the dance practice Seongwoo put him through. Modern dancing and musical dancing are two different things, no matter how much Woojin tries to incorporate some of his style into the choreographies, only to be apprehended by Seongwoo for taking too much creative freedom.

That's bullshit, because creativity's  _supposed_  to be free, and Woojin doesn't see the point of limiting someone's creative freedom: but arguing with Seongwoo is only going to end in him losing, eventually, because the older is too stubborn for Woojin to deal with. So, he ends up sucking it up, and throws himself fully into the choreography and refrains from adding little twists that makes the dance his own. It's terrible, and Woojin would rather suffer three hours of Justin Huang rather than having to dance something without him being able to make the dance  _his_ , and the only reason why he hasn't called it quits is because of his mother. (And Guanlin, to a lesser degree. There's something new about the way Guanlin practices now, and Woojin's not the only one who's noticed, judging by Seongwoo's hidden smiles and the way some of the other members of the club regard him with more respect compared to before.)

If only he wasn't a momma's boy things would be simpler for Woojin, but then again, that'd only happen in a parallel dimension that's too foreign from his own.

"How are the costumes?" he asks Jihoon, who's been too invested in his sketchbook to contribute anything to his and Guanlin's conversation about the upcoming Justice League movie. Woojin can't deny that he wants to see what Jihoon's drawn: Jihoon  _has_ , after all, seen Woojin showcasing his talent, while Woojin's barely had any occasion to see what Jihoon can do.

Jihoon draws his eyes away from the book, and clenches his hand into a fist around his pencil when he forces himself to stop drawing. He hums. "They're going alright. We've still got six months to prepare, and I'm nearly done with all the designs."

Unsure how to carry on that conversation (give him a break, it hasn't been that long since Woojin's been forced to become more socially inclined), he nods. "Oh."

To his credit, Jihoon keeps a straight face. "Are you upset?"

"What?" Woojin frowns. "Why'd you think that?”

"You've been staring at Seongwoo like you want to kidnap his firstborn," Jihoon answers, on a dry note, smirking when Woojin's stunned into speechlessness. "For all your improvement, you're still bad at masking your emotions, you know." The words could sound insulting had they came from anyone else, but considering it's Jihoon, Woojin doesn't find himself feeling slighted. Only caught red handed in his dislike.

Seeing no point in denying what's obviously there, Woojin explains: "I don't like how he's forcing me from adding my own touch to the dance. I mean. I'm a dancer before I'm an actor, and that just... sucks," for a lack of better word.

Jihoon looks at Woojin with something that's not completely unlike understanding. "He has a point." Before Woojin can let out a word of protest, Jihoon's quick to continue, "look, the others aren't as good dancers as you are, even without you adding your own flair to the choreography. Also, what  _you_  want to add to the dance might not be in line with what the character you're playing would do—and I can see why Seongwoo would think that, because I don't think they'd invented that popping move you kept doing, back in the 70s."

That... actually makes sense. At any rate, Woojin can understand  _that_  more than the sparse explanation Seongwoo left (only a "you should hold back on the personal touches!" that did more harm than good), and not for the first time, has himself think about how Jihoon's turning out to be a better teacher than Seongwoo. "Oh," he says, feeling slack jawed. "I didn't really think about it that way, but, that makes some sense."

It  _perfectly_  makes sense, rather than just 'some', but Woojin doesn't feel like further stroking Jihoon's ego. In the words of a meme: not today, Satan.

Under his breath, Jihoon whispers something that suspiciously sounds like, "what would you do without me," and it takes all of Woojin's self control not to take the bait. Maybe that was just a figment of his imagination—it's the  _pressure_  getting to him, totally is.

"Hey," Guanlin breaks the flow of their conversation, but it isn't unwelcome. "Have any of you seen Hyungseob?"

Woojin tears his eyes away from Jihoon, and instead roams them over the room, trying to find a familiar head sporting neatly cropped hair. The closest thing he finds to that is the head of the lightning team, Joo Haknyeon, whose hair was actually the wild kind of curly until he had gum stuck to his hair and needed to have it cut just to remove it.

"Um," Woojin sounds, "I haven't, actually." A bit of him is disappointed for having Guanlin notice this before him, because he's supposed to be the one who has a crush on Hyungseob, but, no matter how much Woojin would rather deny this than say even a word of it, he hasn't been caught up with Hyungseob as much as before, lately. Again, this must be due to the pressure, which leaves Woojin with only the time to think about his acting, his mother (and by extension, the family business, because he can't neglect his main responsibility even after he's found himself busy with theatre), and everything else winds up falling short.

"You could try calling him," Jihoon suggests, fulfilling his role as the person with the most problem solving skills in their trio. "Don't you have his number, Woojin?"

"Don't I have his..." And then, the memory returns to hit him right in the face full force, and it's the one time he found himself having lunch with Hyungseob together (alone, the both of them) for the second time, otherwise known as the last time he was able to get at least five minutes into a conversation with Hyungseob without being dragged away by Guanlin (or more recently, Jihoon), and was somehow able to save Hyungseob's contact into his phone. He might've been a blushing, stuttering mess at the time, but that's... pretty much the closest thing Woojin has ever had to a romantic success, so that's got to count for something. "Oh. I do."

Guanlin has a big, loopy smirk on his face, which translates to nothing well for Woojin. Most he's going to get out of this is embarrassment and a blush that'll cause his face to resemble a tomato. " _Ooh_ , his number. Are you guys texting?"

Woojin really,  _really_  misses the days when Guanlin had been too quiet to tease him, because back then, he'd seemed like an  _angel_  and he shouldn't have taken those days for granted: now that Guanlin has Jihoon around to influence him, he doesn't doubt that some of Jihoon's cheekiness must've rubbed off on him, and the result is... this. It's not necessarily  _bad_ , or at least, not as bad as the master himself (namely, Jihoon), but, still. Guanlin's undergone some character development, to say it in the words of someone who's been hanging around passionate theatre kids for the past month or so.

"No," Woojin denies, and he can  _feel_  the heat emanating from his cheeks. The matching grins worn by Jihoon and Guanlin suddenly look sinister, and Woojin wonders if he can find better friends, and scratches the thought away almost immediately. They're his only friends, if he isn't counting Sejeong and his mom into the mix, and it isn't as if beggars can be choosers. "I... actually haven't texted him anything," he warily admits, and immediately becomes the recipient to a glare from Jihoon.

"You had the opportunity to text your crush, and you haven't said  _anything_? What  _are_  you?" Oh, and Jihoon's now aware of his crush on Hyungseob too, if that hadn't been obvious enough. Guanlin's shit at keeping secrets, and Jihoon caught on approximately three days and four hours after he'd begun to be included in their little circle of friendship. At least Jihoon's better at keeping his mouth shut than Guanlin, though—while Guanlin coughs enough to be mistaken as sick whenever the three of them are in Hyungseob's presence, Jihoon doesn't let out any obvious signs that Woojin  _likes_  Hyungseob, and if there's something that Woojin would prefer Guanlin to learn from Jihoon, it's that.

"Nothing's ever going to happen between us, alright?" Woojin scowls, and although the words hurt, considering they're coming from himself, it's the truth. He's not good enough for Hyungseob, who deserves someone better than an outcast like Woojin. "Get your heads out of the gutter, honestly," he grumbles, but forces himself to click on the 'call' button anyway, amidst Guanlin's whooping and Jihoon's knowing smile.

He's doing this for the team. It's not some kind of selfish desire, and even if it was, Woojin's worried: this doesn't have anything to do with his big, gay crush on Ahn Hyungseob.

Hyungseob turns out to be one of those people who like to set a song as a custom dial, because right after Woojin's phone connects to the network, his ears are attacked by the chorus of a familiar girl group song, one that was a trend what feels like  _years_  ago. He's just about to sing along when the song ends and Hyungseob picks up, which is fortunate timing, because he doesn't have any doubts that Guanlin and Jihoon would record his singing and spread it to the entire theatre crew.

"Hello?" Hyungseob doesn't sound as bright as usual, on the other line. There's a withdrawn, almost tired quality to it, down from the way his voice sounds to the slow direction his tongue takes to utter the word.

"Hyungseob, it's Woojin," he introduces himself first, because he's not positive if Hyungseob's saved his number the way he's saved Hyungseob's. "I noticed you didn't come to practice today. Are you sick?"

He didn't stutter through any of the words: if there's a reason for Woojin to be proud of himself, that's  _that_ , because that feat is more difficult than you'd expect, especially with Hyungseob's voice sounding so close, literally pressed to his ear. (Even if he's not stuttering, his blush is definitely deepening.)

"Oh. Woojin!" Hyungseob's exclaiming the sentence,  _sure_ , but he sounds like he's forcing himself to; that's much more worrying than it is relieving. "I'm okay. I'll go back to school tomorrow, don't worry. You didn't have to call me," he says, and Woojin swallows down an outburst of questions whether Hyungseob's state of mind: is he as okay as he says? Is Woojin wrong to be as concerned as he is?

"Alright," he bites out, because no matter how much he wants to talk more to Hyungseob, something tells him that this might be a subject best left for a real life confrontation. Woojin can play the waiting game. "Why didn't you go to school, then, if you're not sick?"

Hyungseob answers, of course. But, when he does, all the warmth (that was barely there in the first place) is stripped from his voice, leaving his timbre with a cold edge to it, and that's enough to leave Woojin feeling as if he'd made a big mistake by asking the question. "I'd rather not talk about it. Goodbye, Woojin." The line goes dead before Woojin can say goodbye back to Hyungseob, and Woojin's left with the terrible feeling of remorse over his own words, and the curious peering from his two friends, who hadn't heard anything Hyungseob said because Woojin didn't place the call on speaker mode.

"He says he's okay," Woojin repeats, almost mechanically. "He'll go back to school tomorrow."

On the following day, Hyungseob  _does_  come to school, but when Woojin tries to approach him, Hyungseob often finds a reason to avoid him. When he doesn't, Hyungseob breezes by, carefully evading Woojin's shoulder when he walks past him; when he does it, sometimes it's right after Woojin's called for his name, and that leaves Woojin feeling more hurt than the cold, last words Hyungseob had given him over the phone.

More than all of that, however, Woojin feels something beyond something merely inflicted onto himself. He's worried for Ahn Hyungseob, but the prospect of being able to do anything to ease that worry is bleak, with Hyungseob pushing him away no matter how many times Woojin spends the day trying to catch his attention—an activity that forces him to summon the courage he's previously barely been able to collect for a  _single_  interaction, and by the end of the day, Woojin's just restless, and maybe  _sad_ , but he can't find it within himself to feel even the mildest trace of anger.

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:** Track 10 of CD 2 —[ _I’ll Make a Man Out of You_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jbp52Z9jRg0) _._

When Seongwoo first threw the idea of Guanlin having his own mentor, like Jihoon and Woojin, he'd imagined his mentor to be someone who, more or less, resembled Seongwoo. He isn't sure how that idea came into fruition, but it did, and Kang Dongho is actually  _nothing_  like how he'd imagined his mentor to be like.

The first thing that sets him entirely apart from Seongwoo is the intimidating impression he gives. Seongwoo, in Guanlin's humble opinion, more or less throws off the vibes of someone who's good at something and  _knows_  he's good at it; might come across as a little cocky, and probably  _is_ , but for good reason. The first impression isn't something that's necessarily false, either, and the only thing that tends to change after you've hung around his company for a while is the fact that you know he's more embarrassing than he looks, and has the comedic sense of a gagman (albeit, a good looking one.) Kang Dongho, on the other hand, looks like he eats fear for breakfast, and from that fear, manages to have an aura accumulated from it.

He'd be lying if he said he was shaking in his boots, or anything, but Guanlin's first impression of Dongho is that he's  _scary_ , and almost definitely rougher around the edges than Seongwoo is, with his cookie cutter grins and more or less polished, devilish smirks. But, if he's close enough with Seongwoo to owe him a favor, then Guanlin figures he's not as bad as he seems—therefore, pushing away the fear for wary apprehension becomes an easy enough task, and he's definitely having a better time adjusting to Dongho's almost overwhelming presence than the other theatre kids, who'd practically shaken their pupils the moment Dongho started talking with a straight, less than amused face.

"I'm supposed to take you under my wing?" Dongho's placing Guanlin under his scrutiny, and with the sharpness of his stare, Guanlin gets the feeling that he's being inspected, every last bit of him, starting from the untamed mane that is his hair (he  _did_  brush it this morning, but it tends to get out of control fairly easily considering how much he musses it), to the plain sneakers he'd put on this morning.

Guanlin's glad he's not terrified of Dongho (would he have been able to push away the fear of the unknown a few weeks ago? Probably not, but people grow, and Guanlin certainly isn't an exception to it), because that's what makes it so easy for him to match the older's stare without flinching. "Yes, sir," he responds, remembering to sound as formal and upright as possible. He might not be scared, but he still knows his manners. "I'm Lai Guanlin." Seongwoo's already introduced the both of them to each other prior to helping some of the others with their acting, but Guanlin doesn't find any harm in making a reintroduction, notably introducing himself instead of having himself being introduced by someone else.

Dongho, apparently having found whatever he'd been searching for (and he draws this conclusion after seeing Dongho withdraw his scrutinizing stare, instead opting for a smile that actually looks natural instead of fear inducing), nods in acknowledgment. "What are you having trouble with? Seongwoo's already told me the general gist of it, but I'd like to hear this come directly from you."

He's having trouble with a  _lot_  of things, actually, and Guanlin almost wants to say that he might want to sit down for this, except he's not comfortable enough with Dongho to joke around with him yet, and doesn't want to create the wrong sort of impression. "The passion, I guess? I mean. I know the emotions are in there somewhere, but I don't know how to apply them correctly. It's like there's... a cap? And it's blocking the right kind of... emotions, from pouring out."

The look on Dongho's face is contemplative, and Guanlin shuffles his feet together quietly, because he doesn't want to interrupt the other's thinking process; Dongho's helping him out, and Guanlin just wants to be as cooperative as he can to ensure he won't be wasting anyone's time. He likes to pride himself on being self aware enough, particularly, for things concerning himself and other people.

"I think I understand what you mean," he says, at last, and the smile goes from not intimidating to something  _kind_. It floors Guanlin, for a lack of better word, and when Dongho smiles like that, it melts away all of Guanlin's previous expectations on him being anything but nice. "Before we start anything, though, do you want to know why Seongwoo chose me to teach you? This might be all we talk about today, though, and could leave the actual lessons from tomorrow instead of now," he warns, and Guanlin nods anyway. He isn't in a rush; they've still got some time to go until the performance, and Guanlin's rushed into enough things that starting something off slowly almost sounds like a refresher course.

"I've got the time."

Dongho sits down on the floor, cross-legged, and gestures for Guanlin to sit down, too. "It started when I was in middle school..."

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:**  Track 11 of CD 2 —  _[Disappear](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lx9oP2YyY88)_.

Woojin receives the invitation to go to Jihoon's, for once, instead of hanging out at an empty classroom or  _Five Parks_ , a few minutes after the both of them are done with the day's worth of practice. It's a Saturday, and while they usually  _don't_  practice on Saturday, it's apparently a monthly thing, because now a total of two months have passed and they only have four months of preparation until the big event—Seongwoo wants to get as much extra training as possible, and thus, taking away at least six hours of their weekend. Woojin doesn't really want to complain, however, because while he has six hours of break taken from his, Guanlin has even  _more_ , and Guanlin doesn't even say a word of protest. He's the one who's undergone the most changes, in Woojin's fair opinion, and even though he's already changed before, now he's become even better under the tutelage of one of Seongwoo's friends; the one who seems scary and intimidating, but Guanlin assures is really just a fluff ball stuck in the stature of someone who doesn't  _seem_  like a ball of fluff.

Woojin has his doubts regarding the validity of that information, but considering he hasn't actually interacted with Seongwoo's friend and Guanlin seems to spend more time with Seongwoo's friend than he does with Seongwoo (the only times Guanlin's with them is during run throughs, and other than that he's dragged off to have individual coaching like the star of the show he now is), so his opinion barely counts against Guanlin's personal experience.

"You want me to come over  _now_?" Woojin tries to digest Jihoon's offer, because he's literally worn down with enough sweat from choreographies to last him a whole month, and he probably smells bad enough that Jihoon's maintaining a safe distance from him, even taking out a tissue to shield his nose from Woojin's stench. "But, I smell." A lame excuse, but it's still an excuse.

"I can handle that." Can he, really? Woojin feels the need to challenge that statement. "Besides, I've got some cologne in my bag, and you're... obviously going to have to wear that before stepping foot inside my turf." He wrinkles his nose, and Woojin sighs.

"I haven't gotten permission from my mom, though." It's a lot lamer when h e says it than when it's still in his head, but Woojin usually has shifts on Saturday, and it isn't as if he can just blow them off to play hooky with Jihoon.

"Already taken care of it," Jihoon says, digging his phone out of his pocket just to show Woojin the text he'd changed two hours ago with Woojin's mother. Woojin, instead of mulling more over how prepared Jihoon is, wonders more on  _how_  exactly Jihoon even got his mother's number. "Come on, it won't take long. Two hours, at most."

Woojin fans himself with his hand, and wishes the air conditioner was cranked up, before remembering practice is over and the air conditioner's already turned off to conserve energy and help lessen the school bills. "What are we going to do, anyway? We've already practiced," he whines.

Jihoon is amused. "We could hang out like normal friends do," he says dryly, before resuming to sigh. "If you're not up for it, though, I guess I can't force you."

Woojin narrows his eyes. "I don't know what you're trying to play at, but, you know what? Fuck it, I'll come over," he accepts the offer like that, taking Jihoon's bait like a moth to flame. "How are we going to get there?"

The answer to that is  _walking_ , which makes today more physically training for Woojin than almost every other day with the glaring exception of the one time Jihoon forced him to undergo actual, hell-like physical training, and he winds up glaring at Jihoon through it all: it's a little anti-climatic because Jihoon's probably two seconds away from laughing at Woojin's misery the entire time, considering while Woojin was busy with choreographies and run-throughs he was sitting idly while giving the finishing touches to the costumes. Unfair, probably, but not uncalled for.

When they finally arrive at Jihoon's house, Woojin needs to take a few moments to take in the sight of it, because it's located at the suburbs and a firm ten minute walk from the school, but it's  _big_ , white, and adorned with more windows than Woojin can count: it looks like something out of a stock image for the search of 'modern rich person house', and to some degree, it makes Woojin feel  _small_  about his own house. His place isn't small, nor is it necessarily shabby; he'd even go so far to say it's a pretty nice house, albeit not the most conventional design, but when pitted against Jihoon's house that, honest to God, seems more like a mansion—it's a lot like comparing an ant to a boot.

_Snap out of it. You can't compare your house to Jihoon's, your circumstances are completely different_ , Woojin forces himself to think, and while it's not the fastest process, some of the insecurities begin to ebb away to something that isn't unlike acceptance.  _Your mom was able to make do with what she had to provide you with something that not everyone can have—it's not like Jihoon's house, but the least you could do is to be_ grateful  _for it._

By the gate (there's even a  _gate_ , but Woojin can't find himself to be surprised at all), there's a buzzer, and it brings Woojin to the memory of the fancy mansion from  _The Princess Diaries_. The thought of that also manages to get him into conjuring the theory of Jihoon secretly being a prince of an obscure nation, and while the thought of it is entertaining and Jihoon  _does_  have the looks to be a Korean Disney prince, the only thing Woojin can see Jihoon being a prince of isn't a nation, and rather the prince of (lowkey) brats.

(Feel the love, Jihoon.  _Feel. The. Love._ )

The gate swings open by itself, and while Jihoon walks through the entrance with the ease of someone who goes here every day, Woojin finds himself constantly looking at the ground, yelping whenever he nearly hits the grass that's trimmed so neatly it'd bring his neighborhood park's to shame. When they reach the door, Jihoon opens it himself, and Woojin swallows down the shock that he doesn't have a British butler like Alfred from  _Batman_  to do that for him.

"Only people living here are me, my parents, and the security," is what Jihoon says as he pushes the door open, practically reading Woojin's mind. "The cleaner comes every day, so does the gardener, but they don't live here. Dad's got some kind of paranoia about being murdered by his servants." At Woojin's affronted look, he's quick to add, "he's a mystery novel writer," like that explains the fear.

In a way, though, it does.

Woojin would've taken more time to observe the architecture of the living room and all, but Jihoon wastes no time in leading the both of them to his bedroom, which is on the first story, and the view is right across the swimming pool. Jihoon's room itself reeks of sleek simplicity, though, with the pristine windows, the too-tall roof, and the mattress that's almost flatly connected to the floor: it also smells like automatic air freshener, the kind that you'd usually find in mall bathrooms, and Woojin thinks of his bedroom that smells like leftover pepperoni pizza and kind of wants to cry.

"I have to go change first, but make yourself at home," Jihoon's quick to say, fixing Woojin with a nod before he scurries over to a room that's probably a walk-in closet, because what the hell. Jihoon could come out and say he's got a mini theatre in his house and Woojin wouldn't even bat an eyelash, at this point of time. He has seen too much, to be frank.

(When he manages to get a quick look at the room Jihoon opens the door to before having it slam right in front of his face only a few counts later, he  _does_  see that it's a walk-in closet, and it's filled with so many mismatched clothes that it causes an eyesore. Oddly, though, Woojin isn't  _revulsed_ , and even finds himself jotting down the details of the neon sweater that assaults his eyesight, as quick as it is to disappear from his sight, with something akin to fondness.)

Since Jihoon, the master of the house and the apparently rich enough to buy Woojin's life, was the one who told Woojin to make himself at home, then who's he to turn down the request? It's not like the opportunity for Woojin to visit a place that's nothing short of swanky comes every day, and he might as well make the most out of it without intruding himself too much. Might be more difficult than it sounds, but Woojin can make it work; he tends to find a way to make everything work when he puts his mind to it, the same way practically everyone else can. (With the notable exception of getting himself through Hyungseob's façade of being fine when he really  _isn't_ , and the reminder of that manages to sober himself from the slight daze that'd been clouded over Woojin's in-built sense of reality that'd gone haywire the moment he'd stepped foot inside Jihoon's house that's more like a mansion. Reality check, right.)

First and foremost: Woojin starts with the easiest thing to do, which is to look at the memorabilia on the wall, and he starts from the poster that'd been hung up right next to the door. It's a poster of  _Wicked_ , a musical, and it's  _signed_  by the actors of the original play themselves; while there's a worn quality to it that comes from years of existence, surprisingly, none of the edges are torn, only slightly crumbled the way things evidently turn out to be. It's in  _great_  condition, and Woojin gets the mental image of Jihoon cradling it like it's his own baby—when that happens, he snickers, because it's so  _Jihoon_  of him to be protective over the things he holds dear.

Other than the poster of  _Wicked_ , Jihoon also has posters of a few other plays, ranging from newer cult classics like  _Hamilton_  to something as old as  _Cats_. (The only reason why Woojin knows the order, kind of, is also because of Jihoon, who'd been largely responsible in providing Woojin with a list of musicals along with the years of their conception.) Woojin had known that Jihoon's interested in theatre, enough for him to stick around since the beginning of his high school years and even through middle school, but what he'd been unaware of was that it's deep enough for him to collect official merchandise of it: that doesn't mean it's something unwelcome, though, because Jihoon, who's seeming more and more like a fanboy the more posters that Woojin inspects, only serves to grow more human in his eyes, for having his fandoms just like everyone else.

(Also: Jihoon likes to poke fun at Woojin for collecting action figures ever since his visit to Woojin's place, and at least now Woojin has  _something_  to fire back with.)

Once he's finished inspecting what was probably every poster that Jihoon has hung up on the walls (maybe it takes slightly away from the clean minimalism Jihoon's architect had been aiming for, but Woojin finds that it adds character to something that otherwise would've been clinical and maybe even hospital room-like), Woojin's attention is drawn by a shoe box, red and almost plain seeming, that's rested on a wall counter placed directly above Jihoon's bed. He approaches it, and, realizing that Jihoon's probably still in there somewhere finding the perfect outfit (he's learnt better than to verbally question the other's more...  _questionable_  fashion decisions), takes off the lid, holding it in his left hand as he studies the contents held inside the shoe box.

(Later, Woojin will learn that the shoe box, while innocent seeming, isn't unlike the pandora's box; one that'll spur chaos, but at the same time, the events that follow never would've happened had he not done  _The Thing_.)

He's met with pictures, old and maybe not as well kept as the posters on the wall but it's certainly not  _dusty_ , and the edges are worn the way a picture would had it been held too much by someone, and what takes him aback, however, isn't the state of the picture; it's what's  _inside_  the picture, and Woojin drops the lid of the shoebox onto the mattress once he realizes that it's pictures of  _Jihoon_.

The first one is the oldest. Jihoon looks like he's six years old, and he's on stage, dressed in something that makes him look like a lost boy. Directly behind it, Jihoon looks slightly older, maybe eight years old, and this time, the costume he's wearing resembles an archer. On the third picture, Jihoon's grown into more of the features that  _scream_  it's him, notably the eyes, and he's ten, wearing something so stuffy it makes Woojin have difficulty regulating his breathing. The fourth picture is the last, and it looks the most recent, with Jihoon appearing like he's at least twelve, or maybe thirteen, and the way he's styled rings warning bells in Woojin's head, because he  _knows_  that outfit, recognizing it as (a much younger version of) the lead in  _The Phantom of the Opera_.

Everything makes perfect sense, now. The way Jihoon teaches Woojin with a method that comes as easily to him as breathing, the way he can speak of the woes of an actor with a kind of understanding that someone who only works on stage costumes shouldn't have.

"Woojin, what are you doing?"

He's shaken out of his revelation when the man himself comes out of the walk in closet, and when he meets Jihoon's eyes, he can see a swirl of conflicting emotions, but most of all, panic, and (this is what makes Woojin uncomfortable enough to gulp), betrayal.

But, no matter how much Woojin wants to keep staring at the pictures and to further let the truth sink in, he doesn't have the time for that; the more seconds pass with him  _gaping_  at Jihoon like an idiot, the more time Jihoon has to kindle resentment for Woojin, and the thought of that stabs at him more than it should.

"You—Jihoon—you were an  _actor_."

Jihoon doesn't snap at him the way Woojin half-expects him to do, and somehow, that makes Woojin wish he'd done that instead of the alternative. Jihoon smiles at Woojin, but it doesn't have any happiness in it, only a kind of snideness that Woojin  _knows_  he deserves, but at the same time, doesn't want to face himself to it.

"Yeah. I was." Jihoon doesn't bother to deny it. The both of them know the pictures are enough proof to state otherwise. "Are you going to tell the entire school about it?"

Woojin splutters. "But, I don't understand—the last one was from middle school, and some people are bound to  _know_  about it."

"My last performance was during the first year of middle school. On the first play. Barely anyone remembers, and even if they do, most people didn't know my name." Jihoon pauses, glancing at the fallen lid, and Woojin takes it as a reminder to pick it up from the mattress, and while it doesn't undo everything he's seen, he still closes the box, and carefully pushes shoebox back in its previous place. "What, are you going to start asking me about why I stopped?" To be honest, he does, but he gets the idea that might not be the wisest thing to do, as of right now. He's barely threading wisely, and the best thing Woojin can do in this situation, he figures, is to shut up. "Honestly... don't. Just go home, Woojin."

"But—"

" _Please_."

"Alright." And, before Woojin leaves the room, not knowing if this is just him leaving Jihoon's house or if this is going to end up as his exit from Jihoon's life, he forces himself to smile, despite the aftermath of his actions that only serve to make Woojin want to curl into a ball on the floor and question himself  _how_  he could've been that big of an idiot instead of doing something that's now threatening every bit of friendship he's worked for with Jihoon. "I'm sorry, Jihoon. I really am."

Even as Woojin shuts the door, Jihoon never answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was that worth the wait... i hope it was. ack. i'm really insecure about my own writing lmao, i hope this isn't as bad as my brain's making it out to be.
> 
> you might've noticed by now that instead of 3 chapters, there are now 4 chapters in total, and that is because: the next chapter's going to be a filler, kind of? like. i want to focus on inter-character relationships and stuff so the next chapter's mostly taking place before the reveal of jihoon's past, so you can expect 2park and everything. it might take a while for me to update, because honestly, i'm not the fastest writer and i either churn 10k in a day or take literally a whole week to write 2 sentences, but i'm trying, and i promise i'll try my best to finish this story. i've already got the ending and everything planned out, so it's more of a matter of motivation than figuring out what i want to do with this.
> 
> also. more on dongho's backstory next chapter, just in case anyone wants to know more of that.
> 
> every comment is highly valued. <3 it's always nice to know when i'm not writing to a silent audience.
> 
> as usual, you're welcome to talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/uItsdonghyun), [tumblr](fyodorred.tumblr.com), or [cc](https://curiouscat.me/lqdonghyun). thank you for reading!


	3. interlude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mostly unchronological and unconnected snapshots, aside from the 3rd part, which are all, mostly, in order. the first two parts were all beta-ed by the lovely emma, i love her so much and her contribution has been so, so helpful.

**Woojin, I.**

This is the first time Woojin's having an actual conversation with a girl his age that isn't just for ten seconds; he gets to have the conversation with someone who's basically a literal God, so he'd like to think that just losing track of what he's saying in his sentences is actually something for him to be _proud_ of, thank you very much.

"I don't think I've ever talked to you before." A lot of people could say the same thing, actually, but most of them wouldn't say it. "But, since we're going to be working on a lot of scenes together, might as well be friends, right?" At the face of that kind of ease at socializing, a little thing that Woojin's barely grasping the straws to, he can only nod, and hopes he doesn't look as lost and awed as he feels right now. That would be bad, to say the least. "I'm Doyeon."

Woojin knew that. There's really no way he _wouldn't_ know her, the epitome of high school royalty  if that's a real thing and not just something that exists in teen flick movies, because literally no one in their school would remain ignorant to the fact they've got a future supermodel walking among them. As good as she is at posing and promoting brands, however, she's not the best that Woojin's met at masking her emotions; that's the main reason why he can read the wariness on her face as she introduces herself, as much as she attempts to cover it with what she figures must be an easygoing grin.

He's a hundred percent sure this is his reputation at work, more than anything, and he's grown used enough to the wariness. What he isn't used to is people actually wanting to _know_ him as anything more than the resident troublemaker (and not making any conversation, just whispering and pointing from afar like he wouldn't notice eventually), and he'd never expected that one of the only people who'd bother to make that effort would be someone as high in the social hierarchy as Doyeon.

She's just always seemed so out of everyone's league. Woojin thought he'd never be able to talk to her in his entire life, but apparently, he can be proven wrong.

"Hi," he says, after he figures that he must've been silent long enough that she's begun to show some discomfort. Damn it, he probably looked like a total creep right then, and that's just the farthest thing from his original intention.

"I'm Park Woojin. You can call me Woojin. Or, uh, anything you want, actually." Not his best moment, but he hasn't been stunned into silence (longer than a minute), so he must be doing pretty good. Times like these, he wishes Guanlin would pop out of nowhere and just give him a thumbs up of encouragement. That'd be absurd, maybe, but the idea of it isn't necessarily abhorrent.

"Should I call you 'anything', then?"

He needs a moment before the realization that she's joking settles, and by that point, he's laughing too loud for it to sound unforced. God. He's terrible at this, kill him now.

"You can," he says, and the words come out in a tangled flurry, because obviously he's not speaking with his mouth, and rather, his bundle of nerves. "I mean. I had it coming, didn't I." Thankfully, she makes a show of polite laughter, and she's being so nice about Woojin generally being terrible at socializing that he makes a silent vow to purchase her next editorial. But then again, would that help her paycheck increase? He should look into it later.

"Oh, definitely," she says, and doesn't sound _mean_ , but she treats Woojin the same way she'd treat speaking to an old friend. It makes him feel... nice, actually, and the smile that lingers on his face is more real than it is made out of forced politeness. "I'm going to save your number on my phone as that. Now, if someone sees my phone and I've got a text from 'anything', they're definitely going to be curious."

Her cheeriness is infectious, and the banter is enough to drive Woojin into soft laughter. Evidently, that's all the confirmation Doyeon needs to grin heartily, the previous wariness leaving little trace on her pretty face. If Woojin wasn't so adamant on continuing to like Hyungseob, just as he had for the past few years, this would be the exact moment he'd begin to develop a hopeless crush. But, point is, his heart's already preoccupied with someone else, so all he grows for Kim Doyeon is admiration and the need to sign up for her official fancafe.

"Do you act a lot?" The question just slips out of his mouth, a last ditch attempt to keep the conversation from really dying, and he nearly takes it back until he doesn't see Doyeon looking particularly unpleased. It's hard for Woojin to imagine that people wouldn't just go around and consider what he's saying as _useless_ , mostly because he's forced himself to stay silent for so long, and the treatment he's receiving right now does a good job at making him feel like he's not so hopeless at the social department. That he has hope for improvement, farfetched as it might seem at the given moment.

"I can see you haven't watched the previous shows," she teases, and he awkwardly grins. Does it look more like a grimace? He hopes it doesn't. "I've been acting for a while, yes. My manager first told me to join because it could've been practice before I dive intro dramas, but I ended up enjoying myself more than I thought." She shrugs, like that's the kind of story she dishes to people you'd barely consider as acquaintances than strangers, and maybe, it is. "How about you? How're you liking theatre so far?"

"It's... something," Woojin winds up saying, much to Doyeon's obvious amusement. "I've never really joined anything like this before."

"You're a part of the dance club, aren't you?" _Um. How does she know that._ "I bet you're wondering how I know." The question must've been obvious on his face, he thinks, with a dust of pink highlighting his cheeks. "I'm friends with Yerim! You're on her Instagram sometimes, whenever she posts pictures of the dance club. Don't you follow her?"

Woojin doesn't have any SNS, actually, so he didn't even know he was a presence on Yerim's Instagram. "Uh, no," he says, hoping he sounds more sheepish than he is guilty.

"You should follow her! And, you know what, follow me too. I'll follow you back," she promises, and that's enough to make Woojin nod without really thinking about what he's getting himself into, not even stopping to consider that Doyeon must’ve had at least fifty new people following her on a daily basis and how small the chances could be for her to actually notice his account in the sea of unknowns.

(True to her word, however, she _does_ follow him back, even when his account has no avatar, he's got zero posts, and the only people he follows are Doyeon, Yerim, Sejeong, and Guanlin. To know that she'd meant her words instead of just saying them for the sake of it makes his chest feel warm for the rest of the evening, and he makes a careful note to delete his web history so to remove any trace of him becoming an official member and leveling up on the Kim Doyeon fancafe.

Sejeong would never let him live.)

* * *

 

**Guanlin, I.**

Dongho is either really, _really_ good at telling his story, or Guanlin's just great at relating to it and being able to place himself in the older's shoes (past shoes?) that he finds himself able to follow the flow of the story easily. The same way of how easy it is for someone to float on water once they've learned to swim. Though there are more than a few of Seongwoo's decisions that Guanlin questions to this day, getting Dongho to become Guanlin's mentor is far from being on the list.

"You started acting because you wanted to impress someone?" This is the part that Guanlin can't exactly relate to, mostly because he started acting to repay a debt that technically doesn't even need to be paid;  but in comparison to everyone else's reason that seems to stem from the general 'I just _love_ acting' pool, a reason like Dongho's is new, and not unwelcome.

"Yeah," Dongho confirms, nodding with a smile that looms on the bittersweet territory more than anything. Considering he's most likely thinking back on a love that's long passed, Guanlin doesn't need to ask why. "She was one of the most popular girls in school, and her mom was a big shot actress. The acting genes ran in the family." His smile melts from bittersweet to secretive, like he's saying this as a secret meant to be keep between the both of them. "Y'know, she never noticed me. I found out in the beginning of the next semester she actually had a boyfriend who was in college, but I gained something better."

Guanlin leans forward, palms planted firmly on the ground to help him keep his balance. "Like what?"

"Uh, a lot of things?" Dongho laughs, but Guanlin doesn't, and keeps staring at him with big, curious eyes, that tend to be creepy now that he's kept them open, completely unblinking, for longer than five seconds. Dongho coughs, and resumes his story, not wanting to partake in  further participation of Guanlin's scrutinization. "New friends. An actual hobby. A place for me to express myself and my talent further than just singing in the shower," he spells it out, and Guanlin saw it coming, but still, he nods, hanging onto Dongho's every word.

He figures, that if he means to ask a question that Seongwoo's never been able to answer, now might be as good of a time as any. "Was it difficult? Adjusting to something new, not completely breaking under the pressure?"

Dongho makes a noise that resembles a tut, somehow, it makes Guanlin feel chastened. He guiltily leans back, slouches into his form slightly more than he had just a moment ago, and completely misses the glint of amusement that crosses Dongho's eyes, even for the slightest moment. "I never said I didn't break under the pressure."

"What...?"

"Guanlin," Dongho begins, and the tone he uses is enough to force Guanlin out of his slouch, immediately fixing his back and sitting in an upright position. "I wasn't like Seongwoo. I had the potential, and I could sing better than him, though some of that's mostly because I used to be in a choir when I was a kid and I had some tricks up my sleeve already, but— _acting_? That was new to me."

Being new to acting while being experienced at singing is still better than Guanlin's current situation, but it's closer than Seongwoo's ' _I've been good at this all my life_ ' attitude, so Guanlin takes it. Complaining is never going to do him good at any rate.

"I was terrible at it at first," he says bluntly, and the honesty's not surprising, but still, it's nice enough to Guanlin that Dongho doesn't have any qualms with addressing his flaws. Or rather, past flaws. He doubts Seongwoo would've considered Dongho as someone worthy enough to ask him with teaching if Dongho's still terrible at acting. "I didn't start off with a leading role like you, and the role was minor, but when you think about it, I was bad enough to the point the director was constantly yelling at me and giving me sh—I mean, _crud_ —for my fifteen lines and two scenes."

Ouch. That bad then.

"So, what did you do?"

"I found out what was holding me back." This is the part where Dongho stops talking, and looks at Guanlin in a way that gives Guanlin the hint that he should be able to figure out where Dongho's going with this. But, Guanlin doesn't find whatever it is he's supposed to have found, so the only thing he can do is smile apologetically; instead of going on a tirade or lashing out at Guanlin's inability, though, Dongho chuckles, and while his fingers reach forward, as if to ruffle Guanlin's hair, he stops at the last moment and awkwardly lowers his frozen hand to the ground. “It was myself.”

This is beginning to sound a lot like what Seongwoo once said about Guanlin not knowing what to do with his own potential, but at least with Dongho, he might be able to leave the conversation later with something that’d be _useful_ enough to let him know what to do with himself. Something he’s never gained from his numerous conversations with Seongwoo, even if Guanlin’s tried to replay the other’s words in his head, turning them over and over just to see if he can find some kind of hidden meaning that’s never there.

“The actual process for me to come to the realization is a little painful,” he admits, but doesn’t stop himself from telling Guanlin anyway. “The highlight of it had Seongwoo involved, though. Want to hear it?”

Like Guanlin’s ever going to miss the opportunity to hear about Seongwoo’s high school days—because there’s literally _no_ way that Seongwoo doesn’t have any embarrassing moments of his own. Everyone does. “Yes!”

“We only had a month to go until opening night, and I was still bad. Not terrible anymore, but I wasn’t even _mediocre_ , and the director was planning on kicking me out from the theatre club after the show was over.”

“Why didn’t he replace you with an understudy? No offense, but I’ve just heard that’s how things usually work, but I guess understudies are supposed to be when you’re sick,” he ends the note on  a thoughtful note, and smiles shyly when he notices Dongho’s silent question. “Sorry, _hyung_ , you can carry on.”

“Right.” Dongho doesn’t sound annoyed, and that much makes Guanlin feel better about rambling during his interruption.

 “Anyway, I was getting desperate then, so I bought tickets to see a musical that was being held in the city. Got my own transportation tickets and everything, and I was ready to spend a few hours seeing what theatre’s supposed to _really_ be like—never expected to end up sitting next to Seongwoo of all people, and he was as shocked to see me there just as I was to see him.” In his head, Guanlin can imagine it: a younger Dongho, just wanting to see if there’s anything he can learn from watching a play live, having just the luck to get the seat next to the prodigy who wouldn’t understand Dongho’s struggle even if he tried.

“Was he an asshole about it?” Dongho gapes at Guanlin’s use of language, and it’s only then that it sinks in that Guanlin’s talking to a _teacher_ and should try to be more careful about the words he chooses to use. “I mean. Was he _mean_ about it?” he corrects hastily, but the damage has been done if the scandalized look in Dongho’s eyes is anything to go by.

Dongho hums, and shakes his head. “Surprisingly? He was quiet.”

Imagining Seongwoo as quiet is unsurprisingly difficult, and the struggle must’ve shown; Dongho’s quick to speak, not leaving much of a time gap for Guanlin to conjure the image of Seongwoo being silent. “During the show, at least. The show’s got a break right before the second act starts, so he asked me to go outside with him, to get some air. I took up his offer.”

There’s obviously more to this story than just that, because right now Guanlin isn’t seeing anything that correlates to Seongwoo helping Dongho enough to the point Dongho would owe him a favor. And so Guanlin waits on bated breath, gazing at Dongho with a quiet kind of eagerness—maybe a little drowsy too, because apparently, he looks like he’s almost always sleepy, or at least, according to Woojin.

“He took me to a back alley right next to the building. In any other occasion, it would’ve been shady, and to be honest, it probably was, but it was Seongwoo, and I knew him. So, I wasn’t scared. Besides, on the off chance that he’d take that as the opportunity to try something funny, I took up martial arts.” Dongho snorts, and the fact that he has martial arts training doesn’t come as a surprise. “Gist of our conversation: he asked me what I thought I was doing, if I was really doing this as a last ditch effort and why I wanted to try so hard at something I couldn’t get right,” he ends with a note of frustration, as if no matter how many years have passed since then, no matter how much they’ve put the past behind them, Dongho could never forget the emotions he must’ve felt at the time.

That makes perfect sense. Dongho’s only human, after all, and though some are less prone to remembering, there are people who never can. (Keeping in mind, too, that sometimes there are situations that serve to make forgetting not quite an option; those situations are often turning points, and while for Guanlin, it's the moment that Woojin literally manhandled him into a situation better than what he'd before, for Dongho, it might just be this.)

"You want to know what he said to me?"

Um. " _Duh_." He probably could've attempted that a little less ' _obviously_ ' and with more tact, but honestly, Guanlin really just needs to know how this story ends.

Dongho grins with his teeth. "He hated how I had something he didn't, no matter how many times he's tried, and he told me how he hated how much I was putting a cap on my own talents. At the time, I had no clue what he was talking about, because he was always... _him_. You didn't hear this from me (and for God's sake, don't let Seongwoo know I've told you this, because his ego would never deflate and I just feel bad for the poor soul who's stuck dating him), but he always had the sort of talent that was nothing short of unattainable. He was someone who everyone in the production looked up to, because he could commandeer the stage with his presence, and he never seemed to have trouble getting into character. He wasn't perfect, and sometimes the director would have to nitpick him to find some more obscure rookie mistakes, but out of all of us, he was _the_ best. Here’s what I thought back then: _I’ll never be as good as someone like him, so why should I bother?_ ”

“But you had the potential,” Guanlin interjects, sounding as confused as he feels he is. There are many questions swirling in his head, and some of the questions even have questions of their own, but considering all of them eventually lead back to the question he's just asked, he figures he could keep the rest of them as under wraps as he could; given his record of thinking before he speaks though, that might be an unfruitful venture.

"Do you think I knew about _that_?" Dongho makes a noise that sounds like a 'tch', crossing his arms in front of his chest, but considering he's looking up just to look properly at Guanlin, it's more funny than intimidating. "You're lucky you've got a teacher who can see your potential. Mine knew I wasn't completely _useless_ , but that's the extent of it. Before I even realized what I could do, before my _teacher_ realized it, only Seongwoo noticed."

"... Huh."

"He's got an eye for talent. Comes with what he naturally has, I guess." A prodigy with the ability to spot people who've got a shot at being as good as he is doesn't sound too outlandish, considering how Seongwoo's just full of surprises. "Told me it was frustrating how I had the potential, but no one was honing it, and I was too much of an idiot caught up with impressing the girl of my dreams to do anything to even _try_. Told me I had a better singing voice than him, and I got a kick out of that one—could you imagine him having to _bite_ that out of grounded teeth?" Guanlin can, at least a little, but the image would likely never be as good as the actual product. Shame. "I was confused."

The younger blinks. "Not enlightened?"

Dongho's quick to correct him. "Eventually, I was. But at first, I just felt. Angry, insulted, confused, at loss; all those things. I even nearly went home after the conversation, and I was alright with missing the second act, as long as it meant I wouldn't have to deal with him until school."

"And did you?" Guanlin's sure he's probably asking a lot of questions by now, but Dongho doesn't even seem the least bit annoyed—on the contrary, every time Guanlin voices a question, Dongho's cheek dimples show, even if it's the slightest flicker of them. It's like receiving questions and being able to share more of his experiences makes him happier than having Guanlin become a passive listener to the story he has to tell.

(He recognizes that happiness, now that Guanlin takes the time to lament over it for a while: he's found that kind of energy from his teachers, back in middle school, although not all of them shared it. Mostly, he found it from the teachers that taught because it was what they _wanted_ to do, and what the hell, apparently Dongho's the teaching type. Naturally.)

"I didn't." Guanlin's grin matches the one on Dongho's lips. "It was nearly unbearable, considering he was just... silent throughout the second act, and the silence wasn't the good kind. Actually, it forced me to think about what he said instead of enjoying myself, because that's kind of impossible to do considering the person who caused me my problem was literally right _there_."

Something in Guanlin's face twists into empathy. "That doesn't sound very fun."

"Trust me," says Dongho dryly, "it wasn't. But it ended up being a painful sort of lesson. Not fun at all, though it does its job. What Seongwoo said had weight into it, which was surprising, considering I'd previously never pegged him to be the type to notice people aside from himself, maybe with the addition of his own reflection. But I guess that's the surprising part of him, and I just think that, if he hadn't been the one to slap some sense into me, I never would've developed."

Guanlin holds up five fingers in front of his face. "So, first, he told you that you had potential." The thumb goes folded, and four remain. "Then, he said you were too busy impressing your crush." Next, the pinky. "But those words were able to somehow, magically drag you out of your acting slump? Inexperience?" The last one to go is his ring finger, and Guanlin, realizing he's still got his index and middle fingers up in the air, maneuvers his hand back to the ground - a sheepish smile looming on his visage.

"That's the gist of it." Dongho nods. "Sounds really simple when you put it like that, actually." He ends his words with soft laughter, and waves Guanlin off when the younger attempts to stiffly bow his head into a nod that's meant to be an apology, because he didn't know whether to take Dongho's words as a light attempt at humor, or if it was meant to subtly tell Guanlin off. Apparently, it was the former. "You're not entirely wrong. That's how it went, though there was a lot of thinking on what to do and re-thinking everything else I'd done at that point before I was able to improve."

"And how'd that happen? Like." Guanlin tries to make a motion for it with his hands, brows knitted tightly together in a look of concentration. "How'd you manage to take off the... cap, was that it?" At Dongho's nod (though Guanlin only _thinks_ it's a nod, his eyes are a little preoccupied with whatever it is that he's trying to do with his hands, so when he sees something move a little above his line of view, he's supposing it's Dongho's nod instead of something like a bug), he continues. "Yeah, that, or managed to take away the block that stopped you from being good?"

"I found out that everything came from here." Dongho's index finger points at the little space on Guanlin's chest that, underneath, holds his heart. In return, Guanlin makes a face. It's not as if he's got a resolve that makes him firmly against anything sappy, because he _might_ have a soft spot for those things, but at the same time, this feels... anti-climatic, almost. He's been on the edge of his seat, wondering how he was supposed to be good at this acting and performing thing instead of being a flimsy, mediocre lead at best, and apparently, the answer to this question is the same answer to practically any other question: _it's all in your heart_. "Don't look at me like that." Dongho must've read his mind. "I know it seems... simple, but that's because it is. Honestly, I actually saw that solution coming from a mile away, too, although I'd never stopped to actually consider doing anything about changing my own stance of how I saw myself."

"How you see yourself?" The judging look on Guanlin's face has eased into something softer, and he tilts his head in confusion, but at the same time, little warning bells ring in his head.

"Perceive, yes. I perceived myself as someone who wasn't good enough, not that my teacher ever did anything to help with that," he says, maybe a little bitter, but then again, who wouldn't be? "Even after Seongwoo tried to talk some sense into me, my initial reaction was denial and a lot of self-doubt. Things like, maybe he just said those things to me because he couldn't stand that I was trying to improve. Or, on the  more negative side of the spectrum: _he might be right, but I can't make that happen, and I'll never be good enough to live up to his expectations_."

Through this, Guanlin forces himself to be quiet, even though he feels the urge to interrupt Dongho's flow, to say something, _anything_ , but this doesn't seem to be the time.

"Eventually, I came to realize: I was the one holding myself back. I was the one who kept burying down my potential every time it tried to surface by forcing myself to think I'd never be able to be _enough_. If that was the way I'd perceived myself, then how could I ever have improved? I was always trying to tear myself down, because I practiced so much and so hard, I even went to a show to see how the professionals did it: but at the end of the day, I stopped, told myself that it didn't matter if I still wouldn't be good enough, and all of that went to waste."

Even now, Guanlin remains silent, but there's a notable difference: previously, he needed to strangle away his own words, but this time, the silence comes naturally. He _wants_ to be silent, because he's not sure if he can speak with a coherent sentence. Dongho's hitting too close to home now, even closer than the previous things he'd said, and while this is making it harder for Guanlin to breathe, maybe this is a good thing.

 _No. It's not maybe,_ Guanlin resolves, almost grimly. _This_ is _a good thing. I needed it. I_ will _need it_.

"One day, I just decided that I needed to have more confidence in myself and my abilities, because if that continued to be my outlook, then I don't see how I could ever improve. I didn't grow a big head and suddenly thought of myself as the best, but I did enough. I changed enough to start showing improvements, and during the first practice where I gave my all into performing, to the short lines I had, you want to know what my teacher said?"

Mutely, Guanlin nods.

" _Did you have it in you this whole time_?" Dongho's voice goes lower, presumably to mimic his teacher. " _You're good enough to keep around after all_. It wasn't the kind of praise that I'd consider a full praise but after getting lashed with criticisms from the old guy, it was better than anything else I'd ever received from him." Dongho's shoulders move in a shrug. By this point Guanlin's already calmed down from the half revelation he'd received from Dongho's story. "That's not really the most noteworthy reaction, though. That one came from Seongwoo himself, who cornered me backstage, and punched me in the left shoulder before he hugged me." His face pinches into something sour, but it doesn't last long, considering Dongho ends up sighing, and the look on his face loosens into something more peaceful. "It was the most uncomfortable moment of my life." A pause, followed up by, "still is."

Dongho, big and tough seeming, having an uncomfortable look on his face as the smaller in figure, but bigger in ego, Ong Seongwoo holds him in a tight embrace. Guanlin's mouth purses together in a valiant attempt to keep himself from doubling over in laughter, because the image is just... it's something, that's for sure. He wishes he could've seen it happen. It must've been as pivotal as it was entertaining.

"You understand what I'm trying to say, don't you?" At this, Guanlin nods, a little too quickly considering his head feels a little dizzy after the fast, sudden movement. "Do you think you could apply it to yourself? I have to say, this is the first time I'm seeing Seongwoo put enough faith to a newcomer, enough to give him the main lead at one of his productions, but if he thought you were able to pull it off—then you _can_." Guanlin gnaws on his lower lip, maybe a little worried, and Dongho notices. "Oh, I must've made you feel even more pressure. I'm sorry about that." He breaks out of the serious character easily, rubbing the back of his head with a weak grin. His eyes still curve in a smile.

"I'm used to it," Guanlin says, as honest as one could get. "I... I've been keeping this to myself for a while, but I think the reason why I haven't been able to be as good as everyone wants me to be is because I have a problem with believing that I could live up to everyone's expectations," he begins to explain, and it takes up all his courage to stay honest, to not change the subject to something else, to let out his worries to someone who, less than an hour ago, was practically a stranger. (Surprisingly, however, it’s not as difficult as Guanlin makes it out to be: while it still takes him a great deal of bravery, there’s something about Dongho that makes him unbelievably easy to confide in.)

Dongho’s eyes soften, and he reaches out with a palm, placing it atop Guanlin’s knees. It’s comforting, and the warmth that comes is enough to make Guanlin feel easier about divulging his problems. “You’re dealing with that from the start, and if you weren’t scared over it, I’d be worried _for_ you. It’s not an irrational fear, but you have to work through it,” he says gently, knowing he’s treading on thin line. “You’ll never live up to anyone’s expectations if you stay doubtful and scared.” Dongho doesn’t bother to soften the blow, just as Guanlin’s prepared for it to come. That’s why he doesn’t feel so hurt by the comment when it does—comes, he means. “I can help you with that, but it might not be easy. It’ll be as difficult as how you’ll make it for yourself. Do you want to try?”

Guanlin takes a deep breath, and with it, he takes in all the things he wants to be: good enough, worthy enough, and in the end, _more_ than just enough.

He breathes out, and nods, steely resolve hiding behind his deceptively clouded hues of brown.

“Let’s do it.”

* * *

 

**Jihoon, I.**

Whenever Jihoon finds himself being caught up in his own problems, he finds the school’s rooftop as a good enough place to stay in, sometimes during class hours and sometimes not. (Technically, this is ditching class, but he’s never had the best record anyway: his grades are his only salvation, and he maintains them high enough that the teachers are never too annoyed about his occasional absence during class hours.)

The world looks tiny from all the way up here, Jihoon notes, standing at the edge of the rooftop, knowing that one misstep could lead to falling, which could lead to his imminent death. There might’ve been a time where he was too scared to even look down, because the school has four floors and it’s tall enough that he’s sure he’ll be as good as squish if he falls, but now, Jihoon can’t bring himself to care.

Callous, maybe, is the correct way of putting it: he’s just _callous_ to the height, to the possibility of death, to the risk of falling and not having his fate secured. Wrong as it sounds, there’s something almost calming about it, because at least this way Jihoon stays grounded. Knows that no matter how bad his problems get, something as widely feared as _death_ could always happen, and if that does, it just serves to make all his problems seem like nothing at all.

“Fucking _hypocrite_ ,” he says under his breath, acidly, to himself. There’s no one else up here, only him and his shadow that follows him around, and there’s no risk of someone calling him ‘mental’ for talking to himself. It’s just him, and Jihoon can drop the mask he almost always has up freely without any risk. “For all the talk you’re willing to give about how you won’t even blink at the face of death”—just for the hell of it, Jihoon takes a leap, and it’s risky as it is stupid, but he lands fine a few steps away from his original spot, his heart rate only faster by a slight—”but you’re not willing to do jack shit about your stupid _fear_.”

A reckless thought jumps in his head. Makes him wonder what it’d be like if he just jumped _now_ , if doing something stupid and life-threatening would be the thing he needs to get over what he fears the most, because if jumping to possible death won’t make what he’s feared for over three years now to seem trivial, then what will?

In the end, though, Jihoon doesn’t. Instead, he sucks in a sharp breath, and forces his head to reel back to something that doesn’t involve jumping off the rooftop and possibly making the local news’ headlines as some kid who committed suicide because of… whatever reason the media could come up of to make it more sensational. His nails, long and untamed (he needs to clip them, he knows that much, but he hasn’t for a month), dig into the fragile skin of his palm. It’s not sharp nor deep enough to bleed, but it’s enough to make him feel a short sting of pain, and slowly, he gets his feet back on the safe ground of the roof, where he’s not on the edge, where he’s not one, two seconds away from making a mistake and becoming a human pancake.

“Fuck,” Jihoon curses, stooping down to crouch on the ground, and hangs his head low. He can feel some of the blood rushing to his head, and can practically sense the beginning of a small, momentary headache. He’s cursed more on the rooftop than he has everywhere else, all day. Then again, this is what happens when you leave Jihoon alone, with only his thoughts to keep him company. “I’m a goddamn fake.” He laughs, but there’s no trace of humor, only a rough, desperate kind of edge. For all the talk he’s given to Woojin about being an actor, everything else he’s said before to motivate him, he’s woefully terrible at applying any of that for himself—he’s all bark and no bite, and maybe that’s all he is.

Maybe that’s all he’ll ever be.

* * *

 

**Woojin, II.**

On the rare occasion that Woojin goes to practice without Guanlin hanging on his tail, he manages to catch a sliver of Seongwoo’s elusive boyfriend—who actually isn’t very elusive, if you’re a part of the school’s choir because he’s literally the conductor, but since he only hangs around the choir room and barely ever steps foot inside the theatre when the theatre kids are using it, he’s practically an urban myth within the circle of the production team.

“Aw, did you miss me so much that you couldn’t resist the urge to meet me in my natural habitat?” Seongwoo teases, and while Woojin doesn’t see the details clearly, he can make out the way Seongwoo leans in, like he’s expecting a peck on the lips. Instead, his boyfriend scoffs, and rears himself backward, away from Seongwoo’s advances.

“You forgot your lunch in the choir room, Ong.” No malice can be detected, and there’s even a spark of fondness, even if the words come out sharp. Woojin can even imagine the smile behind it: tired, and maybe exasperated, but no less warm. “I have to get back to my class now.”

“But school’s _over_.” Woojin hears the pout in Seongwoo’s voice, resists the urge to roll his eyes, and continues to awkwardly hang by the entrance, still going unnoticed by the pair in the room. “Can’t you stay behind a little longer?” Through the gap between them, Seongwoo reaches for his boyfriend’s hand, and clasps it with his. Woojin feels like he’s intruding on a private, intimate moment, and wishes he could just go back to the hallway and pretend like he hasn’t just seen his theatre teacher showing a side that they’ve never seen before, but the hallway’s crowded with people all going in different directions, the sight of that is enough to make him feel suffocated, and a small part of him just wants to see the dynamic between Seongwoo and his boyfriend— _Minhyun_ , that’s his name, now that Woojin remembers it. Some of that desire stems from Woojin’s general inexperience when it comes to love, and while he has a love line, kind of, with Doyeon in the musical, what happens on stage is different from what’s off stage.

It’s not like he has any friends in relationships, either. Guanlin is just as hopeless as he is, Jihoon’s an enigma when it comes to this and Woojin’s always stuck wondering if he’s single or if he secretly has a harem for himself, and Sejeong generally dates people because she’s bored, and there’s always a constant stream of willing suitors—none of the relationships last long enough for Woojin to ever meet them more than once, however, and when he meets them, they’re always at the early stages of their relationship. According to Sejeong herself, in the early stages, everyone’s almost always lovey dovey: it’s not a good way to judge a relationship’s actual dynamic.

“I’ve got my own students to worry about,” Minhyun retorts, gently pulling his hand away from Seongwoo’s. Seongwoo whines at that, but Minhyun doesn’t seem affected, most likely having grown used to it after all the time they’ve spent together. “Don’t know if you’ve forgotten, but I’m also working to help you with your musical. Who’s going to play the live music for you again?”

“Which is why we should hurry up and do joint practice,” Seongwoo answers firmly, even though they’ve still got a few months ahead of them, and Woojin feels like Seongwoo just wants to spend more time with his boyfriend.

Minhyun _is_ handsome though (unfairly so, though Woojin can see how his beauty differs from Seongwoo, who’s more of a ‘ _holy_ shit _he’s godlike_ ’ kind of good-looking while Minhyun reminds Woojin of someone who could jump out of an anime with the role of a really, _really_ handsome ruler of a kingdom), and appears to have a hell of a personality, so Woojin can easily see why Seongwoo seems so whipped. What he has to wonder, however, is why someone like Minhyun would date Seongwoo: maybe it’s the hidden goldmine in Seongwoo’s seemingly over-confident persona. Meh. Woojin very barely sees it.

“Down, boy,” Minhyun says, evidently exasperated, but doesn’t shrink away when Seongwoo eagerly presses a quick kiss on his cheek. “I’ll wait for you by the back gate. Don’t overwork the kids,” are his parting words, and Woojin visibly sags in relief when he notices that Minhyun leaves through backstage, because the door there leads to an easier, faster road towards the music room.

Seongwoo doesn’t appear to have noticed Woojin’s presence, because he’s smiling in a love-struck, obviously dazed sort of way at the direction Minhyun used when he left. In his head, Woojin shouts, _whipped!_

He doesn’t say it out loud because obviously it’d be incriminating— _very_ —and he’d rather stay clear from anything Seongwoo might do if he finds out one of his students saw him in a state not everyone’s seen him in before. Woojin thinks, maybe this’ll be something he’ll carry to his grave.

(But then again, he’ll end up telling this to Guanlin later anyway, so that option’s only alive for a laughably short duration before it’s almost immediately ruled out.

There goes _that_ option.)

* * *

 

**Guanlin, II.**

Mondays are terrible, and Guanlin’s convinced that if there’s a god of Mondays, said deity must hate him, because it’s exactly on a Monday that Guanlin’s stuck in a classroom with the very person who used to make it his hobby to pick on him before he’d been scared away by Woojin: Ha Minho.

It’s not like Guanlin actually has a _choice_ to be here, but the chemistry teacher has forced him to stay behind (something about assignments he’s missed, and Guanlin would feel more guilty about this had he not a good reason for missing them), and Minho’s there because his grades have slipped so much the teacher would prefer if he’d come to talk about the high possibility of remedial classes. (Technically, the both of them are in different grades, but apparently, he was notified through a text message. That’s the reason why Guanlin nearly fell over in surprise when the senior marched into the room, face clouded in barely suppressed annoyance.)

Guanlin wants to feel bad. He _does_ , because if there’s something he’s learned from hanging around Woojin, it’s that everyone has their problems (that somehow his friend’s scarily perceptive to, though he rarely makes the problems his own and just likes to subtly help someone clear their burden through small gestures that people rarely ever notice), and if Minho’s grades have slipped, there must be a reason behind it. Somehow, Guanlin knows for sure that reason can’t be _good_ , call it a premonition, but at the same time, he can’t bring himself to feel for Minho after all the other has done to him.

He’s just not as selfless as Woojin is, he supposes, but that’s a feat not easily accomplished.

“Here’s a list of the assignments you’ve missed.” Guanlin winces at the paper he’s given, and suppresses a surge of embarrassment. Although he’s missed enough to the point the teacher needed to hand the list (as well as a general detail of what he’s missed so he can make up for it) on A4 paper, typed with single line spacing in 12 pts Times New Roman, he can still catch up—he’s behind because he’s been too focused on theatre and whatever Dongho’s willing to teach him, but Guanlin knows if there’s something he’s good at, it’s science. Doing the assignments would be a breeze. “I expect you to turn them in on Monday next week.”

There goes his sleeping pattern. Guanlin doesn’t complain verbally, however, and easily accepts the decision. He dug his own grave, and now he’ll have to claw out of it himself. Sounds a lot owning up to his own mistakes and being responsible—he has the general hang of it, especially now that he’s managed to get some sense talked into him, courtesy of his newly minted mentor.

The teacher turns his attention from Guanlin to Minho, who’s been silent this entire time, just tapping his feet against the floor loudly, patience wearing thinner and thinner by the moment. He hasn’t tried anything to Guanlin, and Guanlin’s not sure if that’s because a teacher’s around, or if it’s because Woojin’s really managed to knock some sense into him (quite literally.) “And as for you.” Even though it’s only the beginning of his incoming lecture slash scolding, the tone he uses is significantly colder than what he used at Guanlin. “I don’t know what you’ve been dealing with, but your grades have gone from bad to _terrible_.”

 _Shouldn’t a teacher be nicer about this,_ Guanlin finds himself wondering, and his face morphs into something unreadable. On one hand, there’s a sick kind of satisfaction that comes with Minho being punished and Guanlin being there to see it, but that feeling is petty and maybe even vile, and the satisfaction only lasts for a moment. Hot shame overpowers the feeling, twisting his gut, because if he feels this happy over Ha Minho receiving slack in a manner that’s obviously _too_ harsh, maybe even uncalled for (because teachers aren’t supposed to tear their students down, and even Seongwoo could do a better job at wording the sentence than what his chemistry teacher’s doing right now), that doesn’t make him a better person than Minho. In a few aspects, this might even make him worse.

“There’s a test coming up in two weeks,” the teacher resumes, and his glare is cold enough it makes Guanlin shiver in his seat. “Get a grade higher than average. If you don’t, you won’t have a choice of getting into college,” he says dismissively, dropping the bomb as casually as one might take notes about the weather. Guanlin notices the way Minho stiffens, and when he glances down, Minho’s knuckles bleed white.

“I don’t want to go to college anyway,” is what Minho says in response, but there’s a strained quality to his voice, like he’s forcing himself to say the words instead of meaning it straight from his heart. “I don’t need to get my grades up. I’ll just have to be enough in the other subjects so I can get out of this shithole.”

“Language!” the teacher admonishes, but Minho’s not listening anymore, standing up with enough force it sends his chair sprawling backwards.

“ _Fuck you_.” As if for dessert, Minho flips the bird to the teacher, and gets out of the room without taking another glance. He’s left Guanlin behind, dumbstruck and unsure what to think of the storm that’d just passed, and the teacher is in a worse state: rage suppresses him like a cloud, and Guanlin can see the way his face is seconds from turning into an ugly shade of purple.

Survival instincts kicking in, Guanlin also gets up from his seat, albeit at a slower pace because he’s literally just _forcing_ himself to appear calm (instead of the panicked sort of frenzy his state of mind’s in at the moment, because the state his teacher’s in is really not making him feel very safe in this situation), and hastily bows, back stiff. “Thank you!” he practically yells, and powerwalks it out of the classroom until he deems himself at a distance safe enough from his teacher.

There, he leans against a wall, and his whole frame shows visible signs of solace. That was a close call.

As bad as the conversation ended, however, there’s something from it that gets Guanlin to take his phone out of his pocket, open up the web browser, and type in (after searching through the hangul keyboard for a few seconds because he’s still not completely used to it, despite the rapid improvement he’s shown in the speaking department) Ha Minho’s name. Taking into consideration the nature of the school’s wifi that’s flaky at best and his slow data packet, even searching takes up ten seconds. But then the results appear, and at the very top of it, is an article that briefly mentions Ha Minho’s name—it isn’t about _Minho_ , but as Guanlin skims through the article (as much as he can skim without stumbling over a few sentences or so every few seconds), he’s come to the realization that it’s about Minho’s father.

Minho’s father who was recently caught for embezzlement, along with a few other crimes that were uncovered after the initial offense was brought to the attention of the authorities, and after seeing the date of the article, it matches up with the time that Minho’s grades had begun to drop.

(At the end of the article, the journalist mentions she’d tried to get in contact with the criminal’s son, but he’d been notably unresponsive; mostly giving out grunts and profanity, and that just sounds so much like Minho that Guanlin can’t finish the article, because it’s just a further slap in the face that the article is real and that’s Minho’s reality. Having a father who’s now serving his years in prison, and in a society like theirs, the father’s mistakes will fall on the shoulders of the son.

No wonder he didn’t seem to have any hope for college.)

Guanlin pockets his phone with a feeling that’s not completely unlike pity settling in his chest. He still doesn’t completely forgive Minho for what he’s done to Guanlin, and he _knows_ damn well that the older’s done some pretty shitty things to some other students as well. The path to forgiveness is long and thorny and it’s impossible if the other party’s not willing to do something about it either (unless you’re a saint, really), and Guanlin isn’t sure if he could ever fully forgive Ha Minho for what he’s done to him—but knowing this has shined some light on him, and though his personal opinion on Minho is still low and doesn’t seem to be rising any time soon, what he’s learned was able to humanize Ha Minho: given him something that’s softened the previous rough, crudely drawn edges, and goes to show that no matter what terrible things he’s done, he’s just as human as the rest of them.

Maybe it’s a good kind of development, and maybe it’s not: the fact has yet to be seen.

(And perhaps, it never will.)

* * *

 

**Jihoon, II.**

Jihoon finds himself rudely awoken from his impromptu nap by the accurately aimed throw of an empty water bottle to his head.

“The sleeping beauty is awake,” a feminine, and all too familiar voice booms, the very sound of it enough to get Jihoon to groan as he wipes away the remaining sleep from his eyes. Of _course_ the person who’s credited for waking him up is Park Siyeon, who in simpler words, is the same person he’s supposed to be working on the costumes with. And he was! Really, he was, he just… fell asleep in the process, which is a body’s natural response when he hasn’t had a proper sleep in months.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, resisting the urge to frown when he hears her tinkling laugh. His misery equals to her happiness, and all that. She’s sadistic, but she’s efficient, and that’s probably why he’s lasted this long working with her without losing his sanity. (Well, some of it, at least.) “How long was I out for?”

“I didn’t keep track of that,” she says flippantly, but adds, “though I think it might’ve been fifteen minutes? That’s just a rough estimation. Don’t trust my word on it.”

Except, he can, because Siyeon’s critical enough to keep a record for almost anything. He’s fairly sure if he manages to snatch away the pink iPhone on her hands (the case is pink, he reminds himself, not the actual phone because pink iPhones don’t exist—if they did, he would’ve replaced his with that by now) he could find a stopwatch or something within those lines in there, and knowing Siyeon, she’d rather sound clueless than to make it obvious that she actually cared about his wellbeing.

Their relationship is… complicated, to say the least.

“Have you finished the sketches?” Siyeon’s eager enough to change the subject, which doesn’t come to him as out of character. Wordlessly, he hands over the book he always carries with him, and gauges for her reaction as she takes a look through each page. “Not bad, boss man,” she drawls, using the nickname she has reserved just for him, “not bad at all.” Coming from Siyeon, that translates to ‘really good’ in normal person, so he takes the compliment in his stride.

They’ve divided the sketching work in half, so he returns the favour by asking, “how about yours?”

Siyeon dives into her red backpack for her sketchbook, and once she’s found it, she voices a triumphant “aha!” and eagerly hands it to Jihoon’s awaiting hand. Even before he looks through the drawings, he already knows it’s going to be good, because Siyeon’s more of a perfectionist than he is and never does anything only halfway; when he actually looks at what she’s managed to draw up, true to his mindset, they’re nothing short of amazing. They’re _better_ than what he can draw, and the only reason why he’s the director instead of her is because he’s the one who can actually make the costumes (the power of money!) instead of simply designing them. To some, that might be seen as unfair, considering there are a few people in the production team who view him snidely because of this, but Siyeon doesn’t have any qualms with this—claims, and these are her own words, “I’d be too much of a dictator!”—so he doesn’t bother to protest the system.

People are welcome to have a problem with it all the want, but considering the parties involved are fine with the way things stand, Jihoon can’t bring himself to care about what the others think of him and his wealthy status. It isn’t as if he can control which family he was born into.

“Solid,” he compliments, and eases the book back to her lap. “I can get the tailors to start working on these soon. We’ll be done with our jobs before the costumes are even needed, but that’s good. Means all we need to do now is to take measurements, send in the order and wait for the costumes to finish. Then we’re set.”

“As expected of our costume director.” Siyeon flashes him two thumbs up and a too-wide smile. It’s enough to get Jihoon to roll his eyes, knowing she’s exaggerating on purpose just to get on his nerves. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

“... You’ve already asked one.”

“Don’t give me that crap.” She waves him off, and continues as if she hadn’t just been interrupted. Jihoon’s in silent awe at the ease she does that with. “So, is there anything going on between you and Woojin?” Her eyes sparkle with unconcealed interest, and her nails, well trimmed and shining in hot pink nail polish, tap rhythmically against the skin of her cheek.

Jihoon nearly chokes on his own spit, but only nearly, because he’s good enough not to slip up like that. Instead he settles for a wide-eyed look, and tries to make it seem as innocent as he can—not that it does _much_ , because if there’s someone who can read through his masks, it’s Siyeon, who’s just as good as this whole ‘hiding your true emotions’ thing as he is. (Sometimes, Jihoon’s convinced Siyeon is a few steps short of being his female counterpart, and the thought of that is both entertaining _and_ terrifying.)

“What do you mean?” he attempts anyway, but when Siyeon’s face thunders, like she’s about to clock him for asking what she means when she _knows_ he understands perfectly well what she means by the question, the innocent look he was going for crumbles in an instant. “Alright, fine. Here’s your answer: nothing’s going on between me and him, besides the whole tutoring thing that literally everyone knows about.”

Knowing Siyeon, an answer like that wouldn’t satisfy her, but Jihoon tries to hold onto the very, _very_ small bit of hope that it would, and—

“I don’t believe you.”

The hope wilts faster than an untended flower with zero source of sunlight underneath his boot.

“What’s there not to believe?” he retorts. “Have you _seen_ the way we act towards each other? We’re friends, and that’s it. What do you want to see?” He hopes he doesn’t sound as aggressive as he might, because he’s usually much better at keeping away his emotions when he speaks, but somehow, something about the words he just said are forceful. Without his permission, they  come out with something that’s close enough to anger, and Jihoon finds himself thinking just _what_ exactly he’s angry about.

He shouldn’t feel angry. There’s no reason for him to go up in arms over his and Woojin’s relationship, because they’re just bros being bros, albeit with more scuffles and arguments than what your regular pair might get into. Nothing’s romantic about that, is there?

“Hm.” Siyeon’s stopped looking like she’s moments away from disemboweling him, but now she’s staring at him as if he’s doing something dumb. That’s a little rude, because Jihoon’s really just speaking the truth and there’s nothing untrue about his own words. “Whatever, just forget I even asked,” she says breezily, and gets up, brushing away the dust that previously clung to her shorts. “I’m going to talk to Kyla, it’s more fun talking to her than with you.”

“Considering you’re dating her, I’d say that’s obvious,” Jihoon points out, but Siyeon covers her ears, acting like she can’t hear him.

“Sorry, what’d you say? I couldn’t hear that over the sound of _love_ ,” she mentions with flourish. She waves him goodbye before skipping over to her girlfriend who’s on the auditorium seats along with the rest of the performance crew, in the heat of discussing prop movement on stage. Jihoon pities them, because their conversation’s about to get interrupted by a woman on a mission, and Siyeon’s impossible to stop once she’s set her mind on something—he would know.

* * *

 

**Woojin, III.**

He’s never pondered upon how understaffed their restaurant must seem to others until he’s confronted with the question by an offhand Jihoon; manner entirely flippant, although that shouldn’t be a surprise now.

“Hey, Woojin.” Jihoon’s voice is enough to break Woojin out of his fascination with the half-cooked fries. Though his fingers still close onto the oily piece, his eyes are latched onto the slouching youth. “Shouldn’t you guys have more chefs? Your place doesn’t look like business is bad enough to only need, what, two of them,” he mumbles around his fork. Today, he’s trying out the restaurant’s newest menu—spaghetti, because it seems like most restaurants have pasta in their menu in one form or another these days. Woojin’s mother had been ecstatic at the prospect of keeping up with the trends, never mind the fact Sejeong needed to learn how to make a damn good spaghetti sauce in two days. (The _damn good_ has to be there, because they’re a business. If the sauce isn’t good, that means the spaghetti’s just lumpy pasta—that’s not what’s going to keep their business alive.)

The question gets Woojin thinking. “I’d… I’d guess so?” His answer, unsure and hesitant, draws a condescending smile from Jihoon. “I’ve never really asked,” he says lamely, dipping his fry in tomato sauce before popping it into his mouth. It’s a little soggy, but it’s warm and he can taste the salt; it’s alright, as far as food goes. Then again, Woojin isn’t aiming to be a food critic, and if something’s edible and doesn’t taste like expired food, he’ll take it.

“I think you should,” Jihoon says, because butting into someone else’s business (this time in the most literal sense) is his job, apparently. “Maybe you guys don’t feel like it’s necessary because they can take care of everything, but I’ve visited a couple of family restaurants, and they’ve always had at least five chefs.” _Five_. That’s three more than what Woojin’s restaurant has, and the dawning comprehension (that results promptly in a look of horror) must’ve shown, as Jihoon’s quick to add, “but you don’t need to have five. If you want to add more, have… three, maybe. Have someone be an assistant to the head chef.”

Woojin eyes Jihoon with suspicion. “Since when were you a restaurant advisor?” It isn’t as if he doesn’t appreciate the advice; any comment can be turned into something useful, and he’s all about helping his mother improve the restaurant to the best state it can be—but Jihoon has been coming in and out of the restaurant for the past few weeks, yet he’s only cared enough to mention it, all of a sudden, now.

“Since never,” Jihoon answers, never losing his cheek. That speaks volumes for Woojin’s patience, because a few weeks back, he would’ve slapped his forehead with his palm whenever he’d reach his limit—not very much, to be frank. He’s grown now, being able to withstand more and more of Jihoon’s general personality considering the amount of time they have to spend together; it’s less of a choice to become an (in general) more patient person and it’s more of a necessity to deal with him. “You could just call me a concerned restaurant observer.”

“You haven’t said this, not _once_ , in the past few weeks,” Woojin says. It falls flat— _feels_ flat on his tongue too. “You’ve magically busted out another heart or something?” Once, that would’ve been a jab. Now it’s just Woojin trying to seem he’s more annoyed than how surprisingly enlightened he actually is; he’d expected something along the lines of this more from Guanlin rather than Jihoon, in all accounts.

Jihoon gasps, leaving Woojin to wonder what’s so shocking about his own words. “Yes, I’ve got two hearts. I’m a time lord!”

The reference falls on unaware ears, _if_ that was meant to be a reference. To be honest, Woojin doesn’t know shit. He only watches whatever everyone else is watching in the cinema, listens to the same old music (his music taste has stayed mostly unhinged from the seventh grade, and that somehow magically explains all the band merch he keeps as T-Shirts, all of them _obviously_ black), only catches up with whatever his mother’s watching on the television.

“I… I’ve got nothing,” he goes with that, because honesty’s the best policy, and the only choices are either that or attempting a sentence that he _thinks_ would’ve made sense with the context of Jihoon’s words. Maybe _whoaaa, time lords!_ But the fake enthusiasm would’ve made the lie more obvious: so, a dead end, basically.

“You’ve never seen _Doctor Who_?” Like everything else Jihoon does, he doesn’t put his all into the question. Doesn’t sound scandalized or wronged or aghast, hell _no_ —just curious, and Woojin doesn’t doubt he’s chalking the information down in his head, adding it to another one of the things on the evergrowing list of things he knows about Woojin. “Actually, I’m not surprised. You don’t look like the type. Anyway, though—chefs,” he ends, steering the both of them back to their original topic.

Woojin blinks, and sits up straighter in his seat. Unfortunately, all he can think of while doing that is Seongwoo, barking at all of them to _straighten those backs before they crack in two before the opening night, my talented little doves!_ The ignited memory nearly leaves physical discomfort showing on his face.

Right. Chefs.

“I’ll ask my mom about it, but I think I can make a good guess.” At Jihoon’s prompting stare, Woojin carries on without further spoken instruction. _That_ , however, does not mean Guanlin was right when he said Woojin and Jihoon have learnt how to speak with their eyes, because they _haven’t_ , per se; Woojin likes to think they’re good at reading each other because they’ve gotten used to each other’s body languages, and _no, Guanlin, that’s not_ really _the same thing_. “It’s a family business, right?” he tries as the beginning to what might be either an on the mark or a completely off theory. “There’s a secret recipe and everything, maybe mom just doesn’t want to risk it getting… around… and… all…” he trails off in the end at Jihoon’s reddened, sucked in cheeks, the look of someone trying their best to hold back a burst of laughter. “What’s so funny?” he demands, and Woojin would be lying if he said he didn’t sound a little hurt.

It’s not clear _what_ exactly he’s hurt about, though. Jihoon laughing at him? That shouldn’t be something to feel bad about—he’s laughed at Jihoon before too, and it hadn’t had any malice behind it. Or, more specifically, maybe it’s the thought of Jihoon finding something important to Woojin (not just individually, but for his _family_ too) as something funny; that stings, somehow, and he doesn’t know when he started to reflect other people’s emotions onto himself. Just because Jihoon finds it funny, or amusing, or any other thing that would’ve been enough to incite laughter, doesn’t mean that Woojin needs to feel offended—had it been somebody else, Woojin’s sure he wouldn’t have cared. Told the person to fuck off and let life go on, maybe, but _because_ it’s Jihoon, he’s second guessing and feeling small and… other things he can’t find it in himself to describe.

“Sorry,” Jihoon sounds honestly apologetic, instead of saying the word as forced manners, and Woojin doesn’t know what to make of it. “You know there are big restaurants out there with their own secret recipes who aren’t afraid of hiring employees, right?” Woojin knows, of course, but it isn’t as if he can compare _Five Parks_ to _KFC_. “Try to look into that. Maybe they’ve got a legally binding contract—like, if an employee spills, they can go to court. I don’t know, really,” he says, stopping all of a sudden to take a sip of his milkshake; vanilla and sweet enough Woojin gags at the taste of it (he’s tried it once, just like with every other menu in the restaurant). “All I’m saying is, there’s got to be something to fix that, right? Otherwise all those restaurants with their own secret recipes would be… I don’t know, broke because of complaints from customers about the serving time since they’ve got a lack of people in the kitchen.”

“Our customers are perfectly satisfied,” Woojin defends _Five Parks_ , frowning at Jihoon, who has started to bite on his straw. When he releases it from his mouth, there are teeth marks on the red-and-white patterned instrument. Woojin makes a face. “What’s so satisfying about biting on a straw?”

“Habit,” responds Jihoon, and it’s almost automatic. “Hey, can I prove a theory?”

“What theory?” Woojin lets his guards go up, stone walls rising above matted surface. Actually, scratch that, they were never down. Being around Jihoon, who’s sly and slippery and all kinds of things worth calling, tends to do that to a person. Better to be safe than sorry, only realizing the fault in one’s mistake after falling into one of Jihoon’s always deliberate, delicately planned traps.

Except when it isn’t. And then it just springs right in front of his face like a badly structured catapult.

“That somebody can learn your restaurant’s secret recipe without spilling the beans.” With the way Jihoon says this, a random passerby would think doing something like that—granting someone who’s practically a _stranger_ (except not really and Woojin’s just exaggerating but whatever, not the point) to the family, isn’t anything like a walk in the park. It takes trust, if the way Woojin’s mother only hires people she trusts to handle the restaurant is of any indication. She has never posted up an ad for employees where strangers can have a shot at working in _Five Parks_ , and if that doesn’t show her sturdy resolve to hire only the people she knows best, Woojin doesn’t know what does.

“Are you crazy?” Woojin’s voice drops into a whisper, even if he hisses. A normal person would’ve seemed surprised, but then again, Jihoon’s never been much for normalcy—he only smiles, and it grows wider when he realizes Woojin’s a few steps short of wringing his hands in frustration. (To be honest, he’s already prepared, what with his hands clenched into fists and raised on top of the table). “It’s not just—it isn’t that easy!”

Jihoon raises his hands in defense, his own attempt of placating Woojin, and considering Woojin loosens his hands, flattening them into spread palms, it does enough. “I know it’s not, but I just wanted to show you that not everyone’s out to get your secret family recipe out to the world. We’re not all Plankton from Spongebob.” At Woojin’s blank look, Jihoon nearly splutters. “Are you really that left behind in pop culture that you don’t even know _Spongebob_? Dude.”

“I watched the episode where he made the coloured burgers,” there isn’t a trace of any sort of lie, because that’s literally the _only_ episode Woojin has ever watched. “But, uh, I guess I saw pictures…? Squidward is the pink one, right?”

Jihoon’s eyes might pop out if they widen any further. “That’s Patrick. _He’s literally shaped like a star, and the character’s last name is Star_. Woojin, my friend,” if there’s a stab of something bitter at Jihoon calling him friend, he’s not going to say it, and he’s convinced it’s just the fries in his stomach talking, “I don’t even know what you do for entertainment.”

He squashes the urge to reply with _but you already know_.

“You know what,” Woojin winds up saying, after many, _many_ seconds of consideration, “if you want to try making something so bad, I’ll show you how to cook the sandwich.”

That’s not a bad deal, isn’t it? Jihoon can cook the bread and arrange the parts of the sandwich while Woojin gives him directions to use the sauce that’s already prepared. It isn’t as if he’s breaking his mother’s trust by giving Jihoon access to cook in the restaurant’s kitchen—there aren’t many customers around, and there’s free cooking space, meant to be used instead of withering away through an appliance’s version of old age.

“Okay.” The grin Jihoon does is nearly blinding. “Let’s go on a cooking adventure!”

“You sounded like Guanlin right there—”

“ _Cooking_. _Adventure_.”

Woojin clamps his teeth over his bottom lip, just barely stopping himself from smiling. There’s something different now in the way he feels his insides react whenever Jihoon’s around; what had previously been nonchalance, sometimes sparks of random annoyance, has turned into something almost fond, splashed with a douse of anxiety that makes his stomach turn. Sometimes it feels like nausea. Other times, it just feels like there’s something… swirling? Flying? Doing whatever, really, in his stomach, and Woojin’s not sure if he likes the feeling and wants to keep it around; or if he’d rather step on it with a sharp heel before it turns into something that drives him sick.

* * *

 

**Guanlin, III.**

Immediately after being dismissed by Dongho for the day, Guanlin takes his leave from the school and its mostly empty building, going faster every time he hears something unnatural or sees shadows moving from the corner of his eyes. It’s not fear, or at least, that’s what he _wants_ it to be; realistically, being almost alone after hours in a school doesn’t bode well for anyone’s courage.

Guanlin _might_ be as courageous as Woojin, never flinching much whenever the both of them watch horror movies together (recently with the addition of Jihoon, who doesn’t seem to be much of a scaredy cat either, and at least the company makes it easy to decide whenever they want to watch something more on the terrifying side—knowing that nobody’s actually _scared_ of something like that widens the movie choices for selection) but there’s just something inherently wrong about his school’s building once the clock strikes 6P.M. 

Now it’s nearly seven, no thanks to Dongho (but then again, it’s not as if Guanlin isn’t ungrateful for all the help the older’s poured into his training; he should just shut up about this) and while the school lights are left turned on—a request from Seongwoo to the office boys—he still doesn’t feel at ease.

The mind is a powerful thing, conjuring the sound of footsteps behind him that makes his heart leap into his throat, making it seem like the school’s more haunted than how it’s supposed to be. In the end, Guanlin gets tired of walking slowly and cautiously, decides _fuck it_ , and bolts towards the exit door.

He never looks back, even when he can hear the faint sound of laughter from behind him. But then again, the voice sounds like Dongho, who must be enjoying the sight of his little student in fear of something that can’t be seen, so—the thought of that is, at least, more embarrassing than it is terrifying.

The cold night wind that bites and licks teasingly at his skin are a relief, and Guanlin doesn’t bother to spare a second look at the building as his steps take him away, hands burrowd deep inside the pockets of his uniform jacket, a flimsy relief from the evening chills. He walks on muscle memory, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground and noting all the fallen leaves, the oil tracks, never bothering to sightsee the world around him and only looking up whenever he comes across a densely traffic populated area. Car honks and the incessant chatter of the night, children crying out to their parents and couples conversing in hushed whispers, are sources of his comfort, making him feel that he’s never really alone, nevermind the fact he doesn’t have anybody _with_ him; but that’s alright, because there are people _around_ him.

“Oh,” he says, laced with wonder, when he realizes he’s come to a stop in front of _Five Parks_. The bottom of his feet shifts slightly on the ground, crunching the gravel. He hasn’t been here in some time; too many hours spent working on his confidence and what he can do to improve as an actor, leaving him to grow a distance between him and his friends. It’s not as if he _means_ to create the distance, but it’s inevitable, and when faced with the question of spending a few extra hours with Woojin and Jihoon or making sure he won’t be a total failure during the play—Guanlin’s matured enough to choose the latter in a heartbeat.

A peek through the restaurant windows show the place isn’t as crowded as it could be on a Thursday night (it _is_ a day before Friday after all), and Guanlin’s hand hovers over the knob of the door.

For some reason, he hesitates, and the hand only serves to stay like that, awkward and unmoving, until it begins to cramp and he forces himself to put the hand down.

“Hey, could you move aside? You’re blocking the door.”

Guanlin almost jumps out of his skin at the intrusion, but he forces himself into a terse nod. When he turns around, limbs locked tight, he makes a noise upon recognizing the person standing behind him; it’s Yoo Seonho, one of the members of the production, and Guanlin remembers running some lines and memorizing some dance moves with him. He’s as green as Guanlin and Woojin, but without Woojin’s addition of dance experience, his talents in singing and dancing are more along the lines of Guanlin’s; perhaps, that’s the reason why they’ve found themselves in a quiet sort of camaraderie, Seonho occasionally being the one who’s staying behind to work on his moves alongside Guanlin.

They’re not friends—they’ve never spoken outside theatre hours, and the only contact they’ve had without the production being a part of the reason they’re gathered in the same room is Seonho nodding at Guanlin whenever they bump into each other at the cafeteria. But they’re acquaintances, and just as Guanlin recognizes Seonho, the same goes the the other way around, too.

“Guanlin!” Seonho throws on a smile, and the speed it takes for him to change up his expression from boredom to happiness makes Guanlin stagger. His back brushes against the door; had he thrown more force, he could’ve hit the object enough for the impact to hurt. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Why are you still in your uniform?” Unlike Guanlin, Seonho’s changed into more casual attire, a loose yellow graphic shirt with an animated hot dog printed onto it that goes untucked matching with his blue knee-length shorts.

Guanlin takes one look at his messy uniform, untucked and covered with little wrinkles, and frowns deeply to himself. “I just finished extra practice,” he says, voice quiet and almost a whisper in the night. “Do you like to eat here?”

“Woojin’s restaurant?” Seonho nods, fast and repeatedly, the sight making Guanlin see stars dancing across his vision. Maybe he needs to lie down for a while. The temperature and the lack of food in his stomach (he hasn’t eaten since lunch, and even that’d been a quick meal of a slice of cold pizza from last night’s take out) doesn’t bode well for his condition; fatigued, worked through enough hours that anybody with a body more susceptible to sickness would’ve keeled over by now. “I like their sandwich! It’s really nice.” He beams, unsuspecting to Guanlin’s growing pallor.

“I see,” he breathes, and Guanlin needs to force himself to focus to keep himself from closing his eyes. His limbs feel heavy in his own skin, bones weary and thin. “Um. Don’t let me keep you.” He moves to step aside, but when only one of his legs have moved, Seonho’s grip is on his arm. The movement drives Guanlin to a sudden halt, and he barely stops himself from flinching at the foreign feel; he still hasn’t grown used to other people laying their hands on him in a way that isn’t automatically hostile, but he trusts Seonho wouldn’t do anything that’d harm him, so he reserves further judgment and goes still—eyes quietly prodding at the other for answers to Seonho’s pinched expression.

That’s weird. He was smiling just a few seconds ago.

“Guanlin… are you sick?”

Seonho loosens his hand that’s circling Guanlin’s wrist when Guanlin begins attempting to yank himself away. This time, when Guanlin tries to free his hand, he gets no resistance; only worried eyes and frown marred lips, and doesn’t _that_ sight look unfamiliar to him.

“I’m not,” Guanlin lies through his teeth. His head’s begun to feel light, something of a haze blanketing over the sharpness of his movements. He’s not fooling anyone. “Just go and eat your sandwich… or… whatever…” His tongue feels heavy, and he shakes his head, attempting to shake away the dizziness, too.

It doesn’t work. All it does is give him a small case of a headache.

“You _are_ sick!” Seonho exclaims, and then he’s next to Guanlin in a heartbeat, scooping his arm around Guanlin’s waist. Guanlin grunts. He doesn’t need to be _treated_ like this just because he’s not in his best condition, he’s not rendered helpless or anything and—

And, he just almost slipped, knees almost buckling to the strain of keeping his eyes open. Seonho’s there to keep him from actually falling, gasping as he tightens his hold on Guanlin with strength Guanlin hadn’t even known the other possessed, barely stopping him from going down face-first to the ground.

“Come on, you need to go home,” he gushes, sounding as worried as his face lets on; meaning _very_ worried, and Guanlin bites down on his tongue when he feels a cough incoming. Swallows it back down, even when his chest vibrates as it struggles to contain more coughs. He’s not _supposed_ to be sick. He was sick just a few weeks ago—his immune system isn’t meant to be weak enough to succumb to fatigue _now_ , when it’s the perfect time for him to pour his all into the production instead of going on forced bed rest, fucking _hell_.

“I’ll be fine,” he protests, and he attempts to shove Seonho away with his shoulder. That doesn’t work in his favour, and he nearly falls again, had it not been for Seonho (once more) saving his sorry ass by keeping him from swooning.

“You’re obviously _not_ fine,” Seonho says, disapproving, and presses the back of his free hand over Guanlin’s forehead. Whatever he gets makes his face contort further in concern. “Guanlin, you’re burning up. I think you really should go home.”

Guanlin scowls. “Let me go, then. I’ll go home.”

Seonho gapes, and if Guanlin didn’t feel like death personified, he’d be laughing. It makes for a comical sight, because Guanlin’s never seen anyone with a mouth that big before in his sixteen years of life. “In _this_ condition? They’ll find you passed out in the middle of the streets! As a law abiding citizen, it’s my duty to get you home safely,” he announces loudly, and Guanlin leaves himself to wonder if the noise got inside the restaurant. “I’ll walk you home! I can get some food later, your health’s more important than a sandwich!”

Is Guanlin supposed to feel happy over being deemed as more important than food…? He doesn’t get it, but then again, he doesn’t understand how Seonho wouldn’t just go ahead and mind his own business instead of bringing it upon himself to help someone he barely even knows.

At this rate, Guanlin might just give up and pass out before he brings it in himself to further question Seonho’s motives. They’re probably not as questionable as he makes them out to be if Seonho’s bravely carrying on his promise despite all the odd looks they’re getting from the people on the streets—it can’t be helped that a tall boy leaning heavily on another tall boy while he drags his feet through the streets makes a rare sight for the spectators.

“Hey, where’s your house anyway? Is it far?”

“... No. Just take a turn here, and then go straight. It’s the one with the red Sedan parked outside.”

“Oh, I see it! Is it that one? Wow, you’ve got a really tall tree—”

“Yes,” Guanlin cuts Seonho off, voice thick and almost nasally. “It’s that one. Hurry up, I want to sleep.”

Seonho falls quiet at that, and he doesn’t speak anymore until the both of them are outside Guanlin’s house and Guanlin has dug the key out of his bag and is in the process of unlocking the front door. “Hey, Guanlin?” Seonho says, his voice cutting through the night’s gentle lull. The door opens with a click. “You don’t have to go to practice tomorrow. I could tell the teachers that you’re sick—you shouldn’t force yourself, it’ll be bad in the long run,” he says, sagely.

Guanlin pauses in front of the door, even when one of his feet’s already inside the house. Some of the warmth from inside rushes outside once the door swings open, and Guanlin physically sags as the heat melts the tenseness of his muscles. “Thank you,” he says, and while it comes out a little hoarse, he _does_ mean it; while he can’t see what face Seonho makes at that, he hopes it’s at least enough to paint a smile.

“Do you…” This is stupid, and Guanlin will most likely live to regret this. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

Seonho draws in his breath. “Of course! Are you in any state to cook, though?” Seonho sounds so _concerned_ over Guanlin, and it’s too much for Guanlin to handle, because he’s not used to people who barely know him going so far as to care about his own well being.

“I have leftovers,” Guanlin mumbles, and fully steps inside his house. He turns around, and Seonho’s smiling widely at him, most likely thinking about the prospect of food. “Are you coming in or not? It’s freezing outside.”

Not to mention, the sooner he can eat, the sooner Guanlin can sleep. He’s barely standing upright as of now, hand grasping the walls to keep himself from stumbling. He should, however, have enough energy to heat up the food in the microwave and throw the dishes into the sink; he’ll clean them tomorrow, or maybe his other family members could once they’re all home.

“Sure!” Seonho nods, his enthusiasm off the charts. Guanlin’s never met anybody so happy over the idea of having dinner, but then again, he’s never met anybody like Yoo Seonho before either. “Are we having sandwich? Burgers? Pizza? Chinese food?”

“Don’t speak so loudly…”

“Oh! Your headache! Sorry, sorry!”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Sorry!” This time, Seonho whispers, and the ridiculousness of it all is enough to get Guanlin to grin. The grin is weak and unsteady and he still feels like what would happen if death became a human body, but—it’s a better sight than anything else that has been on his face for the past hour.

That counts for something.

* * *

 

**Jihoon, III.**

An important piece of information that Jihoon’s stowing away from Woojin now that the both of them are wearing spare chef aprons (at least they’re not plastered with _Kiss the cook_ ) and are inside _Five Parks’_ kitchen, stove and ingredients ready on the spare cooking area, is that he doesn’t know how to cook anything isn’t instant. Or fried eggs, but then again, it should be a given that anyone knows how to fry eggs.

“So.” Jihoon slaps his hands together, trying to make himself more ready than he actually is. “Let’s get to cooking.”

Woojin looks at him, judging. “Do you know where to start?” he prods carefully, and Jihoon forces his head to stay still instead of succumbing to the automatic reflex to shake. “Do you remember the order of what’s _inside_ the sandwich? The layering, Jihoon.” Woojin pauses to wheeze, and that sounds like he’s trying to control his laughter. Fucker’s probably enjoying this more than Jihoon is right now, for all he said about ‘secret recipes’ and all. “You literally just ate the sandwich yesterday.”

“Uh…” he fills in, letting his mind race with the possibilities before deciding on what should be the most obvious answer. Jihoon’s memories are hazy and they’re no help. “The vegetables?”

“Yes, the sandwich has vegetables.” Oh, Woojin’s _definitely_ enjoying this a lot more than Jihoon does, cornered and confused and regretting all the life decisions he’s made leading up to this. “Which comes first?” Woojin presses, still patient, but infinitely more amused. He doesn’t even bother to hide his amusement anymore, and for reasons that escape Jihoon himself, Jihoon finds that interesting instead of annoying. He must be getting soft.

“The tomatoes?”

“No, idiot, it’s the lettuce.”

Jihoon huffs, and sniffs his nose the other way. “Not everyone was born a cooking conoisseur.”

Woojin tries the word. “C...Conowhat?” He fails miserably, and Jihoon moves his head so that he can see Woojin again instead of empty space, taking the chance to openly laugh at the other’s face; it’s every bit as satisfying as he imagines it would be.

“Who’s the idiot _now_?”

“Not everything’s a competition, Jihoon,” Woojin says, sounding tired, but coming through with enough leftover energy to slap the back of Jihoon’s head; not hard enough to actually hurt, but with enough force that Jihoon’s attention is forced back onto the sandwich instead of Woojin’s woe. “Come on, you said you wanted to make a sandwich. Don’t you have basic sandwich making experience?”

There’s no easy way for him to say he has professional chefs, imported from various parts of the world, cooking his meals any time he wants; all he needs to do is ask. Though he doesn’t have any maids living in there, none of his family really knows how to cook, and they’ve always got a cook stationed in the kitchen area at any given time; at least, whenever the sun’s still out, as once again, his father is tormented by  the everlooming possibility of having their entire family killed by a worker, just like in the novels he writes. The explanation would take too long, and Jihoon doesn’t know how Woojin would react to knowing about Jihoon’s wealth, so he keeps his mouth shut, and settles for a sheepish smile.

Woojin’s a big boy. He can draw his own conclusions from that.

“Guess I’ll have to teach you from scratch, don’t I?” Woojin sighs, but his jaw settles with resolve. One thing Jihoon appreciates about Woojin is the other’s inability to back out of his word; even though he can see it, plain as day, that Woojin would rather call it quits on the so-called ‘cooking adventure’ and let Jihoon carry on the rest of his live without making a Woojin-styled sandwich, his set of morals rejects him from doing so. He’s stuck carrying this out until the bitter end. “Grab a piece of lettuce and put it over the bread.”

Jihoon follows Woojin’s instructions, taking lettuce out of its container and smoothing it out after it’s atop the base. He looks at Woojin, asking wordlessly for approval, and Woojin nods. Good enough.

“Next, get the tomatoes.” Easy enough. “Done? Now do that with the salami—the _meat_ , Jihoon.” Considering Jihoon’s now halfway done, or so he judges, he begins to realize that this doesn’t look like the sandwiches served in the restaurant at all; even the _bread_ is different, because this one looks more like the flat kind of bread someone would put strawberry jam over (the way Jihoon does with his), and he must be dumb enough to have fallen for the trick for the past three minutes. “Dude, stop glaring at the sandwich.”

“This isn’t the sandwich your restaurant serves,” Jihoon says accusingly, lips tugged down in a heavy frown. He’s not looking at Woojin, and as Woojin would say it, he’s still glaring at his sandwich. “Why aren’t you teaching me to make that sandwich?”

“Because beginners have to start somewhere?” is Woojin’s answer, dry and unimpressed by Jihoon’s mini hissy fit. “I got the feeling you’ve got no idea how to make a sandwich, and I was right. I wasn’t going to let your first sandwich be the sub one—you’ve got to work your way  up,” he says, sounding solemn enough to end the sentence with a grave nod.

“But I want to make the restaurant sandwich!” Jihoon cries, like he hasn’t heard Woojin’s reasoning just a few seconds ago.

Woojin pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes a deep breath. He must be reeling in his temper, but Jihoon’s never been the type to back down from an argument halfway. Must be both of their shitty lucks to get into this sort of discussion with someone as equally hard-headed as each of them, neither willing to give up so easily. “You’ll still get to use the secret sauce, alright? Calm down.”

Jihoon wants to stretch the argument a little further, but as he opens his mouth, his eyes zoom into the heavy lines, coloured like bruises, hanging underneath Woojin’s eyes; it dawns upon him that Woojin mustn’t have gotten enough sleep recently, what with the theatre preparations getting more intense and the other emotional baggage he might have. An argument with Jihoon over how sandwich is made might not be at the top of Woojin’s list of priorities right now. He swallows the guilt and his pride with it, and tells himself that he’ll get another chance to pester Woojin about this. Not anytime soon, but once the production ends, he’ll just have to worm his way fully into Woojin’s life and get him to help Jihoon make a _real_ sandwich, then.

“Fine,” Jihoon agrees, trying to make it sound like he’s more reluctant than he is. Woojin’s eyes dart towards him in surprise, and Jihoon lets his mind take a picture of that moment, because he doesn’t want to forget it—ever. “Let’s just get to making that mediocre sandwich.”

“It’s _not_ mediocre, it’s just the basics and I can assure you it’ll taste anything but—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jihoon waves him off, smothering back a smile. Woojin’s awfully passionate about his family’s restaurant, isn’t he? “Just _get to it_ already, Woojin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, please leave a comment! short or long, both are deeply appreciated and give me further motivation to continue the story. (which, y'know, is nearing its end.) i have [twitter](twitter.com/uitsdonghyun), [cc](https://curiouscat.me/lqdonghyun), and [tumblr](fyodorred.tumblr.com), just in case anybody wants to get in touch.


	4. cd iii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alt. title: woojin is an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for niecie.
> 
> heed the warning tags accordingly.
> 
> (also, this is parkwoojin, i've just decided to change my username to deliveryservice.)

**NOW PLAYING** : Intro of CD 3 – [_Just U_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gigORGNGnwY) _._

“Are you disappointed because someone’s been hiding something from you, or are you disappointed because it’s _Jihoon_ who was hiding something from you?”

Woojin, for all the confusion and betrayal crammed in him right now, musters the energy to glare at Sejeong. “Aren’t those two the same things? You’re supposed to be better at this comforting… talking things out shit than I am.”

He ducks when she throws a tissue case at him. It hits the wall behind him, and lands on the ground without a sound. “There’s a difference between them, you know.” When she doesn’t carry on with an explanation, he glares harder. Woojin’s glare doesn’t mean shit, though; she laughs it off and smiles like his glare is incapable of striking fear into the hearts of others. “I don’t know, Woojin. I’ve known you for years, and this isn’t the first time someone hid information from you. This is the first time I’ve seen you this upset, though.” She shoots a pointed look at the tub of strawberry ice cream Woojin holds closely to his chest;  his shirt is a little wet, stained from the melted freezer ice that coats the packaging. Feeling a possible cold incoming from the melted ice, Woojin sets off to place the tub on the counter, sparing it one last mournful look before parting. “You make a perfect picture of a heartbroken teen from a 90s movie.” Sejeong snickers.

The comparison is enough to get Woojin’s face to shift from annoyance into something resembling perturb. An odd feeling flickers across his chest, and his cheeks begin to burn a muted red. “I am _not_ heartbroken,” he protests, but the words feel strange on his tongue. Like he’s telling a lie, but he _isn’t_ —he _can’t_ be. There’s nothing to be heartbroken over. So, a friend he thought he could trust turned out to have been hiding important information away from him. So, _Jihoon_ was the one who didn’t tell him anything about _something_ that would’ve been helpful to know since day one. So, Woojin is more than a little betrayed, and a whole lot of hurt.

That’s not heartbreak. It’s anything but.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Sejeong says, rolling her eyes. Obviously, she’s unimpressed. “How the hell am I supposed to help you when you can’t even figure out what you’re feeling?”

“I _can_ figure out what I’m feeling!” Woojin doesn’t miss a second when responding, barely letting her words sink in before the words kick and punch out of his lips with no sort of hesitation.

Sejeong’s shoulders flinch at the raise of volume, but before Woojin can apologize, she waves him off; her eyes are brighter now, glowing with something not completely unlike anticipation, and she watches him ardently.

“I’m… I’m _frustrated_. I’m disappointed, and I feel like he never took me seriously when we were friends because he could just keep something like that from me the entire time!” He crescendos, and Woojin wants to scream his frustrations on top of a rooftop—but he can’t. Ranting should suffice for now. “I was honest with him the entire time—Sejeong, I don’t think I’d ever lied to him, and I know that technically, he didn’t _lie_ to me… but… it still hurts, you know,” he breaks off, voice low enough to be mistaken for a whisper; “but do you know the worst part?”

“What was it?” Sejeong prods, gentle. Her eyes are kinder now—softer around the edges. Her hand, cold to the touch, rests on the back of Woojin’s curled palms. When Woojin doesn’t move to push her away, she takes it as the confirmation needed to use her fingers to softly uncurl his palms, and intertwines one of his hands with hers. Woojin doesn’t make a single movement on his own, staying limp and letting Sejeong move his hands as she sees fit.

“I was the one who let him,” Woojin says; “if I hadn’t let my guard down, this wouldn’t… it wouldn’t be as bad as it is right now. Was I stupid for letting him in?”

Sejeong squeezes his hand tightly. Woojin winces. “Now you’re just being silly,” she admonishes, and Woojin has to force himself not to look hurt. “Woojin,” she starts off, smiling at him in a way that makes him feel like he’s a kid again. “Just because he hid something from you, doesn’t mean that any of this was your fault to begin with. It was _Jihoon’s_ own choice to keep that information to himself—you’re not stupid for letting your guard down. You didn’t expect him to _have_ that kind of secret, and now that you know what he’s been hiding you feel hurt. Alright. That’s human.

“But you’re taking all of this like you should’ve seen it coming from the start. Like… like you should’ve closed yourself from him from the very beginning,” Sejeong says, and Woojin hates how correct she is on the matter. A part of him wishes she was wrong on something just so he could say something out of spite, but—he can’t trust himself to find words. “I don’t think I can agree with that. Life is all about experiences, you know. The good, the bad—you’ll never be able to grow if everything you go through is what you’re used to. So, you feel frustrated. You feel betrayed. It’s a new feeling, isn’t it? You’ll _grow_ from this, won’t you?”

Wordlessly, Woojin nods, mouth feeling dry.

“Don’t get so hung up over what could’ve been. Don’t blame yourself for not closing yourself off from the beginning. Don’t…” Sejeong pauses, “don’t be too hard on yourself, Woojin.”

“I’m not too hard on myself,” he tries to sound convincing, but it means jack shit if Woojin can’t even find himself believing what he’s saying.

Sejeong doesn’t say anything, but when her gentle smile is replaced by a frown, that’s all Woojin needs to know she doesn’t believe him, either.

“I can’t believe I apologized to him,” Woojin says, breaking the momentary silence. “I know he’s… he might hate me now, for going through his things, but was I an idiot for apologizing when _I_ was the one who got fooled the entire time?”

“Because the both of you did something wrong?” Sejeong offers dryly, raising a brow. Woojin bites back a curse. Trust her to play the role of the devil’s advocate, even if she’s supposed to be his only comfort (the ice cream tastes terrible) at his time of crisis. “Nothing is black and white, you know,” she says gently, “when a conflict happens, there must’ve been something going on from _both_ sides.”

Woojin mulls over her words. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget the betrayal that shone so brightly in Jihoon’s eyes, but he doesn’t think he can get over the fact that Jihoon just hid away important information from Woojin so easily over the course of the past few months, either.

“How about you head back early today?” she suggests, and unclasps her hand from his, folding her hands together on her lap. “Get some sleep. Watch a movie.”

“No,” he rejects the idea immediately, shaking his head. “I need to do something to get myself busy. Anything. Do you have any errands I could run?” He doesn’t feel like eating ice cream and moping anymore. What Woojin wants— _needs_ —is a way to get his mind away from the matter at hand. Something to get Jihoon off his head.

“I guess you could help me in the kitchen,” Sejeong sighs, but doesn’t sound all that reluctant. “But only for an hour. After that, you’re going home and resting, alright?”

“Why can’t I stay longer than an hour?”

“Because it’s almost dinnertime and maybe I care about your wellbeing more than yourself? Don’t think me and your mom haven’t noticed your lack of sleep,” she warns, and Woojin bites back a sheepish smile. “Tomorrow’s Sunday. You should at least _try_ to fix your sleep schedule. You’re _young_.”

“Stop saying that.”

“What? You’re young?”

Woojin nods. “Yeah. You say it like I’m a teenager and you’re thirty.”

Sejeong swats at his head. It’s a good thing Woojin has fast reflexes. “Thirty is _not_ old, you punk!” she exclaims, and Woojin laughs, maybe for the first time since the beginning of their conversation. “Alright, if you’re staying, might as well make yourself useful. Come on, go clean those dishes.” She gestures at the dirty plates on the sink, and Woojin wastes no time in mounting over towards the pile.

For the next hour, he only thinks about messy plates, what a waste the leftover food make, and customers who eat alone, but manage to order more than three meals. At least the thought of Jihoon and the weight of Woojin’s decision never really sinks in, then.

* * *

 

 **NOW PLAYING:** Track 1 of CD 3 — [_Concentric_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iYnBQMeaIzo&t=1939s).

The screen of his phone shows the clock striking two in the morning, thirteen minutes past the mark. But Woojin can’t find it in himself to go to sleep; the only thing he’s found himself able to do is closing his eyes in a sad imitation of sleeping, although the thoughts that occupy his head, settling themselves comfortably in every nook and cranny, taunt him still.

“I hate the world,” he proclaims, even though the only person who can hear him saying that is himself. Woojin doesn’t know if he really means it, or if it’s another one of the sliver of thoughts that he only finds himself thinking, never really executing. The line separating them tends to blur when it’s well past midnight.

Woojin kicks away his blankets, and regrets his decision after the cold nips and bites at the uncovered skin of his belly. Holding back a whine, he props himself up into a sitting position with his elbows; once the blood rushes back down from his head, he rises from his mattress, and makes his way with small, shaky steps towards his computer. The cushion of the seat greets him warmly, and he stretches his legs underneath the table without any sort of grace, turning on the electronic device almost immediately afterwards.

His computer blinks to life. Woojin blinks when the artificial light proves itself too bright and hurts his eyes.

Logging onto his KakaoTalk on PC, Woojin’s mouth drops into a round ‘o’ when he sees the notification of a new message. Considering he’d fallen asleep after bidding good night to Guanlin, it was probably Guanlin’s own reply to his message.

When the notification pops up next to Jihoon’s name, however, Woojin has to rub his sleeve against his eyes to make sure he isn’t making this up. Projecting his feelings into reality, something along those lines. The notification doesn’t disappear, so Woojin pinches the inside of his elbow.

All that comes from that is a sharp sting that leaves him cursing under his breath, and what’s shown on the screen stays the same. Woojin’s not coming up with this, then.

 **Jihoon**  
[11:08PM] woojin, can we talk?  
[11:08PM] if you’re still awake.

Woojin’s fingers shake as he types down his response, but he forces himself to calm down. He’s late replying to Jihoon’s message by multiple hours; it isn’t as if Jihoon would still be awake at this time.

 **Me  
** [02:15AM] hello

A short ‘hello’ might not be the reply Jihoon would be waiting for, but Woojin’s not about to take his tail between his legs for someone he hasn’t completely forgiven. He understands the weight of the situation better after an hour of cleaning dishes and a few more hours of reading through _Yahoo! Answers_ posts regarding broken trust and snooping through other people’s stuff. He did something wrong, and Woojin would be the first person to admit it—but he still wants his answers, too. Staying in the dark and having to come up with barely based conclusions isn’t something he’d actually _do_.

Woojin almost jumps out of his skin when his computer rings with a _Katalk!_ , signalling Jihoon’s response. It might be a Sunday, but if Jihoon had self preservation skills better than what Woojin has to call his, he _should_ be in bed by now instead of staying awake and responding to the messages of someone you’re supposed to be having conflict with. Still, he eagerly clicks for the response, and scans his eyes through the lines of text.

 **Jihoon**  
[02:16AM] oh, you’re still awake?  
[02:16AM] but anyway i think i have a few things to say.  
[02:17AM] can you call right now?

 **Me**  
[02:17AM] audio or video

 **Jihoon**  
[02:18AM] video sounds better.

 **Me**  
[02:18AM] wait

In the drawer that comes connected to his desk, Woojin finds his headphones, and plugs it into his computer. The headphones are a shade of neon red, a secondhand one he’d gotten from a garage sale two years ago, and maybe they’re tacky, but they work. Besides, the microphone is good, and Woojin’s chest feels a little lighter now that he knows he won’t have to shout his words just to get his point across. (Besides, it isn’t as if _Jihoon_ of all people would insult the design of his headphones—his taste is even worse.)

 **Me**  
[02:20AM] i can video call now

The time it takes for Jihoon to send Woojin the request to video call stretches like the longest three minutes of Woojin’s life. But when the request pops up in his screen, he barely hesitates to accept it, and a few seconds later, Woojin’s mouth dries at the sight of Jihoon in a miniature window on his screen; he looks _small_ , dressed in a yellow sweater too big for him and practically hanging over his form, but what catches Woojin’s attention the most is the weariness sketched all over Jihoon’s visage.

“Hi,” Jihoon is the first to say something, the smallest of smiles pulling his lips.

Woojin wants to greet Jihoon back just the way a regular person would, but his attention finds itself drawn towards one thing in particular, and he ends up blurting out: “Your hair’s a mess.” He’s not wrong, though: Jihoon’s hair is sticking out in all directions, resembling a bedhead, but somehow, worse.

At the sudden admittance, Jihoon quirks his head to the side, mouth drawing open with slow, languid movements. Like he’s about to say _oh_ , but he never does. “Is it?” he wonders, voice small. “Never noticed.”

“Messier than usual,” Woojin corrects hastily, because now that he thinks about it, Jihoon’s hair has never exactly been tidy, either. “What did you want to talk about?” he doesn’t let himself second guess when changing the subject, because this is the reason why Jihoon even asked him to call in the first place; they’re not here to talk about Jihoon’s hair, or to stare each other silently in some kind of lost wonder.

“Ah,” Jihoon voices, and runs a hand through his hair. Somehow, it gets messier, and Woojin gets the image of Jihoon deep in thought, unknowingly running a hand through his hair and messing it up every few seconds. The plausibility of it having happened isn’t as low as Woojin might guess. “I wanted to apologize,” the words come out in a rush, and Woojin blinks once, twice, and thrice before the weight of the words really crash through his head.

“You… you wanted to what?” he asks weakly, not because he isn’t _glad_ that they won’t have to face Monday with torturous, awkward silence, but because he’d never have expected Jihoon to be the first one to come forward with an apology. Post his discussion (like _hell_ he’s going to call it a heart to heart) with Sejeong, Woojin already began to figure out his plan to apologize to Jihoon, to make sure a single mistake wouldn’t it be all that it’d take to ruin their fragile friendship, but without making himself seem like too much of a pushover. And he’d been ready to do that—apologize and everything—but with the way things are appearing, his plan just looks like a waste of time and unnecessary emotional exhaust.

“I’m sorry I shooed you away,” he starts, and looks at anywhere but Woojin; “all you wanted were answers. I mean. After you left, I got some time to think, and I still think it was shitty and uncalled for of you to look through my stuff like that.” Woojin, at least, has the decency to look ashamed. “But it wasn’t mature of me to just… to just do _that_.” He doesn’t need to specify what he means for Woojin to understand, and for that, Jihoon’s grateful grin doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Look, Woojin: I’m just a fucking mess,” he says bluntly, and holds up a hand when Woojin opens his mouth to object. “Don’t even try to deny it. If you knew the truth, you’d feel the same way.” He bites on his lower lip, hesitating, but ends up blurting out: “Maybe even worse.”

“You don’t know that.”

Jihoon smiles at that, but the smile holds no humor behind it. Only something bitter and tired, and Woojin would be lying if he said this would be the first time he’s seen Jihoon like this; yet it doesn’t revolt him, and on the off-chance that this is Jihoon showing him who he is, none of the usual veneer in place, Woojin just wants to know _more_. But, only if Jihoon would let him. He’s not about to dig through Jihoon’s privacy for the second time, especially for his own indulgence.

“Then tell me the truth,” Woojin lets slip, doesn’t think twice when he says the first response that comes in mind. Then it finally registers that what he’s just said is bold as it is stupid, and Woojin clamps a hand over his mouth, in disbelief over his own words—though too late to take it back, because Jihoon doesn’t blanch from the suggestion. And in the stead of the trepidation Woojin expected is thoughtful humming from Jihoon’s part, eyes closed in something that doesn’t stray from consideration.

“If that’s what you want.”

The hand falls from his lips, and Woojin barely stutters out a coherent, “what?”

Jihoon shrugs. The movement looks bigger than it is because of the size of his clothing. “You wanted the truth. I’ve been keeping this to myself for a long time, and I…” He takes a deep breath. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to talk about it to someone I can trust.”

 _Someone I can trust_. Those aren’t even the only words that Jihoon had said, but they’re the ones that really leave an impression on Woojin, who doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the words said, maybe even when he’s old, senile, and stuck living in a house upon a hill with ten other cats. It’s not _just_ because of the words said, but this is the first time someone has explicitly told Woojin about their trust in him. And it’s something that transcends the line of casual friendship, something fragile and almost too delicate for Woojin’s rough and clumsy hands to carry, but he’d be _damned_ if he were to turn down Jihoon’s tentative trust—maybe he’d even regret it in the days to come.

“Yeah. Okay,” Woojin says, breathless. “You can tell me the truth. I won’t let a word slip to anyone else.”

“Even Guanlin?” Jihoon doesn’t speak with malice; only amusement, and a little bit of teasing, but Woojin chooses to take his question seriously.

“Even Guanlin,” he assures firmly, nodding his head in rapid succession.

Jihoon laughs. The sound of it is soft, and if voices could be held, Woojin would’ve cradled Jihoon’s laughter to his chest.

“I don’t want to take too long, though,” his sentence is cut off by a yawn, and Jihoon chuckles sheepishly. “It’s getting late. And you’re usually asleep at this time,” he points out, almost accusing, even when all he does is pin Woojin with a careful stare.

A childish part of him wants to retort with _you’re usually sleeping now too_ , but that’s not true. Jihoon’s sleeping pattern is even worse than Woojin’s, most likely, considering the nature of his job that requires him to spend most hours of the night converting his sketches into something more digital. Theatre isn’t a place for the weak-willed, because everyone has their part and has their own fair share of working hard, and both Woojin and Jihoon can attest to that.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Woojin says frankly. He watches as Jihoon’s eyes widen a fraction with surprise.

“Me too,” he admits, quiet enough for the word to come out as soft as a whisper through Woojin’s headphones. “I’m not the best at starting stories. I’ll just get to the point of it: I have stage fright. I’ve had it for the past few years now—Woojin, please don’t pity me. I don’t need your pity,” the last part breaks the flow of the story, but Jihoon’s quick at catching the change in Woojin’s expression, and he’s quick to call him out too.”I’ve had enough of pity. I’m _sick_ of it.”

“Sorry,” Woojin apologizes, and offers up a guilty smile. “But… what happened? I saw the pictures and you’ve always looked,” he stops, thinking of the correct way to put it into words, “at home on stage.”

“Well,” Jihoon considers Woojin’s words, “I was.” _Was._ “Can’t really feel at home where you embarrassed yourself in front of hundreds of people, though.”

“Oh.” _Really?_ Oh? _That’s the best you can think of?_ Woojin scolds himself. Externally, however, he’s somehow able to maintain a straight face. “What happened?”

Jihoon’s eyes cloud over, wistful, and Woojin _knows_ that while Jihoon is there, his thoughts are in a place that isn’t his bedroom, stuck in a time years before now. “The day before opening night for my last show, I made a mistake during practice. It was just a line, but it was the first time I made a mistake.” He laughs, a monosyllabic sound. “Everyone told me it was just one time—that I’d do better tomorrow—but on opening night, during the most important scene, I forgot my lines.” Woojin winces at that; now that he’s an actor himself, he knows the panicked confusion that comes when he misses a line on a scene. “I improvised, and it was only for a short part, so the others were able to catch up. I was scolded, and I… I took it to heart. I shouldn’t have, but I did, and on the last day, I kept screwing up my lines during the entire second act. The faces of the crowd…” he breaks off, and clamps his mouth shut, like he doesn’t trust himself to speak. Jihoon lifts his feet from the ground and onto his chair, and hugs his knees closely to his chest.

He has never seen Jihoon look so vulnerable.

“I quit theatre, the day after,” he says this so casually, as if he were talking about the weather; the ease Jihoon uses to say this, like this is a story he’s told repeatedly, does nothing but make Woojin’s heart clench. “I know I should’ve just… I should’ve sucked it up, try again, do all that. But I couldn’t. Just the thought of having to go up on the stage again made me anxious—I couldn’t do it anymore.”

And then, Jihoon asks: “Do you know how it feels to have something you’ve worked _so fucking hard for_ , something you’ve been involved in for as long as you can remember—to have all that just torn down like it was nothing?”

 _No,_ Woojin wants to say, _I don’t._

But he keeps his mouth shut, and waits for Jihoon to carry on. He doesn’t force Jihoon to rush; it’s a Sunday, and as far as he knows, they’ve got all night.

“Sometimes I hate myself for it,” Jihoon says, raw and honest, “because I can’t help but think, if I’d been stronger, then maybe I wouldn’t be so scared of something I used to love.”

“But it’s not like you can just force yourself to be brave!” Woojin blurts out, interrupting Jihoon, and judging by Jihoon’s shock induced stupor, he hadn’t expected Woojin to say anything. “If people could make themselves feel _only_ what they want to feel, then what would be the point?”

“You know,” Jihoon begins, evidently amused, “some people would disagree with that statement.”

“People will continue to disagree on a lot of things,” Woojin says; “being human, you’re not supposed to be perfect. You’re going to feel things you wish you didn’t. You’re going to make mistakes. You’re going to experience bad things.” Sejeong is going to be _so_ proud of him for referencing her. “There’s no need to get so hung up over it—everyone has different limits.”

Jihoon mulls over Woojin’s statement, and nods in a movement soft enough to almost be imperceptible. “A pep talk isn’t going to make all the negative emotions just disappear, but I’ll keep your words in mind, Woojin. Thank you,” he says, and adds: “I’m not just saying this out of thanks. I mean it.”

“You’re welcome.” Because Woojin doesn’t know if prodding further into the subject is allowed, he asks, cautiously, “but if you said you quit theatre, how are you in the costume department now?”

At least, Jihoon’s face brightens, hard lines softening into something kinder. More open, perhaps. “I decided to start over in high school. I love theatre—it’s practically a part of me. An extension of my body, and although I still can’t find it in me to go on stage again, there’s nothing wrong with doing my part behind the curtains.”

“Honestly, I don’t know if I could do something like that if I were you,” Woojin says, meaning every word. “It’d just _hurt_ me, you know? To be so close, but at the same time, so far from something that I used to enjoy. I mean, and this is probably a shit analogy, but if I had an injury and had to stop dancing, signing myself up to be the dance club’s manager would just be self-inflicted pain.” Woojin doesn’t _want_ to even begin imagining what he would do if he were in a position like Jihoon’s. Even having the smallest idea of the equivalent of Jihoon’s experience happening to him to what he’s most passionate about, drills fear into himself. Having to sit in the sidelines while the people around you do what you can only _wish_ you could still do…

Jihoon snorts. “Who says it doesn’t hurt? It just hurts less than having to stay away completely from theatre, but—it’s still not easy, you know, for me to see everyone practice and doing what I wish I could do, and only being able to help the team by making costumes.”

“You’re not _only_ helping,” Woojin says, aghast, “what you’re doing is actually one of the reasons why the production would even work in the first place.”

“I’m touched,” Jihoon sounds like he means it, despite the sarcastic context the words could be taken out of; “I really am, but it’s… It’s still different than actually being a part of the performing team.”

A suggestion appears in Woojin’s head, and he shoves away any second doubts he might have before saying: “Why don’t you give it another try, then?” It might be outrageous, but Woojin can _hear_ the love Jihoon has for the arts. For _performing_ , even when Jihoon’s forced himself to retire as an actor. It might be a long shot, but Woojin is sure he wouldn’t get a wink of sleep if he hadn’t, at least, given Jihoon something to ponder over.

Jihoon’s face clouds. “It’s not that easy, Woojin,” is all he says, unlocking his knees from his chest, putting his feet back on the ground. “I think I’ll have to go to sleep, now. It’s late. I’m planning to sleep in tomorrow,” he declares, like Woojin wouldn’t notice the sudden change of subject. It’s hard to feel guilty when you’re only trying to get someone you care about to get over their fear, however.

“Okay,” Woojin says, and after seeing nearly an hour has passed since the beginning of their call, he repeats (and this time with more surprise), “okay.”

In spite of himself, Jihoon shakes his head, a smile that Woojin hopes is fond stored on his lips. “Good night, Woojin.”

Woojin returns Jihoon’s smile with a grin, wide and sleepy. “Good night, Jihoon.”

This time, sleep claims him within seconds of Woojin snuggling himself underneath his (now retrieved from the floor) blankets, eyes drawn to a close almost immediately after climbing atop his bed. He dreams of standing on a wide expanse of a stage, a crowd as big as the ones in professional shows, and Jihoon standing next to him, their hands intertwined as their backs bend in sync for a curtain call bow.

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:** Track 2 of CD 3 — [_The Name of Life_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VLjE4FFYFSY).

“Come on, please?”

“What’s the _point_ of this, Woojin?”

“There’s no specific point to it! I just think it’ll be cool. Come on, Jihoon,” Woojin whines, attempting to convince the thoroughly _un_ convinced Jihoon to the best of his ability. He slaps on a pout just to go the extra mile, because Jihoon’s pouts tend to work on him and there should be a chance of it equally happening the other way around, but the cringe stated plainly on Jihoon’s expression says otherwise. Woojin’s shoulders sag, face falling into a scowl. “Man, you’re relentless.”

Jihoon gives a cough at that, and if Woojin didn’t know any better, he’d assume Jihoon were holding back a laugh. “I’ll do it if you manage to give an argument that isn’t just, ‘ _it’ll be cool_ ’,” he imitates, fingers creating air quotes. Woojin wants to punch the condescending smirk on Jihoon’s lips.

Woojin huffs, and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Fine. Here’s the main reason why I want you to do this.” He pauses, sucks in a deep breath, and exhales, “I need help with my blocking.”

“Huh…?” Jihoon tilts his head, and scratches his head in confusion. “I’ve seen your blocking during practice, though. It seems alright to me.”

“Yeah. _Seems_ ,” Woojin emphasizes, and uncrosses his arms, swinging them idly by his side. “Come on, you’ve got to help me. Just this once.”

Instead of easily complying to Woojin’s request, Jihoon prompts: “Then why don’t we do it off the stage? There’s no need for me to help you with blocking on stage. We can work on it on the floor and you could apply the knowledge—”

Woojin shakes his head, stubborn to the very end. “I’d prefer to do it on stage. Nothing better than instant application, right?”

“No one said that,” Jihoon accuses, glancing at Woojin with brows raised in a poor imitation of an unimpressed Seongwoo. “Woojin…”

The truth is close to spilling from Woojin’s lips, because he’s never been good at shielding his real intentions, has never had the necessary skill to be _manipulative_. But Woojin bites down on his tongue, and ignores the pain; he can’t say the truth, at least not _yet_ , because all that’ll do is scare Jihoon away and that’s the last thing he needs. It takes a special kind of person to tell Jihoon the truth of Woojin trying—not just _wanting_ —to help him get rid of his stage fright, and Woojin has never considered himself as special.

“Please?” Woojin tries, one more time, and puts all the pleading he can muster into the one word. Jihoon softens, frown turning into a straight line and shoulders losing their tension, and Woojin has to kick away the need to smile— _got him_.

“Fine,” Jihoon says, grudgingly, but climbs onto the stage where Woojin is already standing, a grin nowhere short of being triumphant spread across his mouth. “Which scene did you want to work on?”

Woojin pretends he hasn’t been thinking about this for the entirety of the day. Pretends he hasn’t attempted to hatch a plan, one that might be slow and has a higher possibility of failing than working, since the morning after he’d uncovered the truth. In a way, some of his thanks should be credited to Jihoon himself, because he wouldn’t be able to look so convincing at acting like he’d been caught unawares by the question had it not been for Jihoon giving him a few tips on acting in general.

“Uh…” he drones, much to Jihoon’s obvious annoyance; “let’s try out the scene where Kenickie confronts Rizzo?”

Jihoon stares at him blankly. Woojin’s quick to add, trying his best not to stutter, “you know, the one where she’s supposedly knocked up?”

“... You want me to be the Rizzo to your Kenickie?”

Woojin tries not to shrink underneath Jihoon’s pinning stare. Trying to stand his ground to that is, unsurprisingly, difficult; Jihoon’s eyes have always been intense, though that’s a fact most tend to overlook until they’re faced with them. (It’s easy to think _why_ people would forget about that, though. Jihoon doesn’t look like he’d be capable of even hurting a fly, and for some, it’d be difficult to process the truth that Jihoon is a lot more dangerous than he lets on—call Woojin crazy, but that’s the thing he likes the most about Jihoon. That he’s more than capable at throwing people off guard, never failing to prove himself to be full of surprises.)

“You’d look pretty as a girl?” is his pathetic attempt at flattering Jihoon, who doesn’t even do so much as blink. “I just… you know…” Woojin wrings his hands together, and pointedly looks away from Jihoon, making the perfect image of a guilty party.

He resists the urge to start whistling to compensate for the tense silence, but only barely.

At last, Jihoon grumbles, grumpy faced: “I don’t even want to know what goes through your head.”

 _Technically,_ you’re _the one who’s going through my head right now_ , Woojin nearly blurts, before realizing it might sound compromising if taken in another context. And so, he wisely shuts up, and opts for an open mouthed grin that shows his rows of teeth.

“You mind if I use my phone?” Woojin’s positive Jihoon’s only asking that out of courtesy, and it wouldn’t have mattered even if Woojin _did_ mind, considering Jihoon’s already taking out his handphone as he asks the rhetorical question. “I don’t remember Rizzo’s lines,” he explains, eyes trained on the screen as he accesses what Woojin figures would be the script document, available in the group chat.

“Go ahead,” Woojin says, smiling at Jihoon even if Jihoon doesn’t catch it in time.

One forced stage practice isn’t going to magically cure Jihoon of his stage fright, and Woojin knows that much; he is not an expert in trauma, and he doesn’t have a speck of interest in pursuing a field of study that goes in depth about it—but he knows enough. Woojin knows enough to be realistic about the ordeal, that his little project to help Jihoon regain the confidence he’d lost could take months, years, and might even crash and burn; not working at all. But the least he could do is try and give it his all. After everything Jihoon has done for him, going above and beyond the bare necessities of his supposed job description, Woojin’s not just going to sit down and _not_ do his part in doing something that might help Jihoon, too.

That’s the very minimum he could do, as both a person and a friend.

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:** Track 3 of CD 3 — [_A Town With An Ocean View_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vD1yAEWpzeQ).

There aren’t a lot of things that can make Guanlin nervous, because Guanlin has nerves of steel. (Or at least, that’s what he likes saying. It makes him sound tougher than he is, but to his credit, he almost _always_ looks tough—of course, it’s all the result of being a little emotionally stunted, but at least it makes him look cool to the people who barely know him.)

But when Seongwoo asks him to come to the theatre during lunch because they’ve got things to talk about (or, in Seongwoo’s own words, _come drop by during lunch, my little future star!_ ) a lurching feeling makes itself at home in his chest, and even as Guanlin has one feet inside the theatre, the other following shortly after, he feels like death is on his tail.

It’s _strange_. A little while back, he wouldn’t have considered being called like this to be anything of importance, but now, just having this kind of invite makes him feel like he’s willingly coming to his death. He’d like to say he doesn’t know _why_ , but he does: there has, after all, been a notable change in his behavior during practice. Whether it’s a step in the right direction or if he’s regressing, however, is another matter entirely.

“Guanlin!” Seongwoo greets, jovial as ever. Though he’s wearing one of his signature carefree grins, it doesn’t do much to soothe Guanlin’s nerves. “Come take a seat.”

Without further word, Guanlin sits across Seongwoo, and fights the urge to flinch underneath his assessing glance. He bravely keeps his chin up, never succumbing to the growing need to look down. There shouldn’t be anything for him to be afraid of. He’s worked hard, and Dongho himself has even said that Guanlin has improved—there’s no reason for him to be terrified. No reason for Guanlin to feel smaller in his own skin, no reason for Guanlin to assume the worst. He just needs to calm down, take in the situation calmly, and listen to what Seongwoo has to say without conjuring the image of the situation turning _bad_.

So, Guanlin takes a deep breath, musters all his courage, focuses on having the warmth of it ease out his nerves, and calms the _fuck_ down.

Seongwoo smiles, knowingly, like he knows the very thought of what’s going through Guanlin’s head. He doesn’t know to take that as a good thing, or if it’s something Guanlin should be afraid of. Figures—no matter how many anecdotes of the man Seongwoo has now heard from Dongho, it wouldn’t budge the fact Seongwoo remains unpredictable.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” His voice doesn’t tremble, nor does it betray his inner conflict. That’s a good enough starting point.

Seongwoo, obviously, sees through him. “You don’t need to be so nervous,” he says, and Guanlin’s eyes widen. “Relax. I’m not here to yell at you. I don’t _yell_.”

Guanlin begs to differ, remembering the time Seongwoo lost his temper on someone who kept forgetting their lines (he’ll never forget the look of embarrassment and anguish on the person’s face, but at the same time, he’s just _glad_ he’s never been on the receiving side of Seongwoo’s wrath), but having an argument with someone who’s bound to stay stubborn until the bitter end doesn’t sound very appealing. And that’s the reason why he shuts his mouth, and waits for Seongwoo to go on.

“How are things?”

Guanlin blinks. Once, twice, thrice.

“Um… sorry, what?”

That certainly isn’t what he was expecting.

“I said,” Seongwoo begins, a little impatient; “how are things?”

Guanlin tries not to look too perplexed; not too difficult, considering he’s heard from multiple people that he has the ability to look dead inside without even trying. Still, though: Seongwoo has never been one for formalities—why now?

“They’re alright…?” It’s him talking about his _own_ feelings, but he can’t help sounding confused; what was supposed to be a statement ends up being more of a question, and judging by Seongwoo’s growing grin, it must’ve amused him. “I don’t see the point of asking this,” he deadpans, keeping his face blank after managing to wipe away the questioning look.

“Your grades are slipping,” Seongwoo points out bluntly, and Guanlin has it in him to say he’s not even surprised by the other’s lack of tact anymore, “are you sure you’re fine?”

 _Since when did you care,_ Guanlin so badly wants to say; but this is still Seongwoo, and he’s still the one who runs most of the things behind the show. And being cut from the production halfway doesn’t sound appealing, especially after all the effort (his own sweat and maybe a _few_ drops of tears) he’d put into his role. “I can take care of myself,” he says instead, nodding resolutely. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Wasn’t worried,” Seongwoo bats away the suggestion almost as soon as it was raised. Guanlin scoffs to hide a smile—just as he’d expected. “Has Dongho been teaching you a lot?”

Considering Dongho has his own life outside Seongwoo’s production, and he isn’t even officially getting paid for coaching Guanlin, he doesn’t have the opportunity to study under the older’s tutelage every single day. However, Dongho attempts to at least make it into practice twice a week, and whenever Dongho is around, Guanlin _knows_ better than anyone not to waste even a second of his time. “He has,” Guanlin affirms; “you could see from the results, though.” After a second, he adds, “I guess.”

“You guess,” Seongwoo echoes, shaking his head. “You’re right, though. You’ve improved, Guanlin.” Guanlin gapes openly at that, all composure lost; this is the first time he’s received an outright compliment from Seongwoo, instead of having them be backhanded or even reluctant. “By leaps and bounds, I have to say,” he adds on, and noticing the awestruck Guanlin, laughs quietly to himself. “I mean—you’re _finally_ living up to the potential I saw in you. I was right in making the call to Dongho, but then again, when am I not?”

Even the usual Seongwoo-ness of the last statement doesn’t outweigh Guanlin’s honest shock, and he doesn’t bother to dignify or collect himself when he stutters, “I… I—”

“Now, don’t go over the moon just yet,” Seongwoo’s quick to interject, but he never loses his proud smile. “You’ve still got ways to go, but I _am_ liking what I’ve seen so far. You’re going to be a good lead, Guanlin—you’re _already_ a good lead. If you keep it up, you might even give a younger me a run for his money.”

Is this real life? Did someone slip something in Seongwoo’s coffee? The first _you’ve improved, Guanlin_ was already generous, and now for him to receive a praise as big as Seongwoo comparing him to a younger him—in Seongwoo’s language, that might just be the biggest praise he has to offer. Guanlin doesn’t _know_ how to process that, doesn’t know if he should be bending his back to the point it hurts by thanking Seongwoo, doesn’t know if it would be wiser of him to stay quiet, red-cheeked and stunned to the point of losing his carefully kept wits.

“Thank you,” he says, and Guanlin’s surprised his voice comes out at all. But, he clenches his jaw, and meets Seongwoo’s eyes head on, even if all he wants to do is mouth all the compliments Seongwoo has said to him over and over again. “I know you don’t just give out compliments easily,” he articulates, and doesn’t flinch underneath Seongwoo’s unblinking eyes, “so… this is a big deal. For me. Maybe for you too,” he blunders, and he’s unable to stop himself from reddening once he realizes what he’s just said. “I’m not trying to dictate what you feel or anything, I’m just…”

He should probably clam up now.

“Take your time,” Seongwoo assures, and Guanlin prides himself for not jerking away when Seongwoo’s hand finds itself in Guanlin’s hair, ruffling it and leaving it out of place by the time he’s done. “It’s not everyday someone gets a compliment from me. Bask in it, soak it up—”

This is the point where Guanlin tunes him out, but it doesn’t change the fact he’s still _floored_ over the given compliments. ( _Compliments._ Plural!)

His hard work and hours of self introspection are paying off, after all.

* * *

 

 **NOW PLAYING:** Track 4 of CD 3 — [_Summer Rain_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZsYwEV_ge4Y).

Jihoon doesn’t look pleased at all, tricked into wearing a shirt and jogging pants instead of his usual uniform get-up, and he’s glaring at Woojin with the ferocity of someone who’d just been outsmarted by someone who’s _not_ supposed to be as cunning as he is. Woojin wants to take a picture of it, but he knows a movement would just get Jihoon to snatch his phone away from him in a quick move; then Jihoon would either throw the phone away or keep it for himself, because he’s petty, and Woojin _hates_ how even pettiness doesn’t look terrible on Jihoon.

“Woojin,” he begins slowly, and Woojin cowers when he realizes Jihoon’s voice is dropping closely to a growl, “I’ve gone on with your schemes for _too long_.”

Could it be that Jihoon has finally figured out his plan—

“First of all, you’ve started getting me to work on blocking with you _on stage_ for the past two months!” He holds up two fingers, sticking them in the air where everyone else can see. (They’re the only ones in the room, though.) “I thought that was just one of your one-time ploys, but you decided to _stick_ with it. Fine, I went with it, because I thought it wouldn’t do much harm, right?” Woojin slowly backs away from the fuming Jihoon, holding both of his hands in front of his chest in an attempt to ward ~~the evil~~ Jihoon away. “So I thought, that’s it! That’s the end! But now you’re even trying to get me to learn the choreography?” Jihoon flails his limbs. Woojin bites his tongue to restrain a wave of laughter. “Are you conducting your revenge on me, or something? I’ve already said sorry!”

(For someone so smart, Woojin learns that Jihoon can be unexpectedly ignorant at matters like these. But then again, that ignorance is exactly what’s keeping Woojin three steps away from the death he’s practically promised if Jihoon were to find out about the true nature of Woojin’s intentions. He doesn’t strike Woojin as the type who would appreciate the help.)

“Or something!” Woojin rushes, and ducks in time when Jihoon reaches out to to grind Woojin’s head with his knuckles. “Come on, Jihoon, just this once,” he pleads, and runs across the room when Jihoon lunges.

A few months ago, Woojin would’ve gaped at the sight of Jihoon losing his composure. But he’s no stranger to that by now, and the sight of a fuming Jihoon is now almost regular occurrence. “Please? Just one dance number? I just feel like it’d be fun to have you be able to do the dance number that Guanlin and I can do—”

“Guanlin?” Jihoon halts his steps, and looks at the stands accusingly. “Is he somewhere there? Did he set up all this?”

Woojin wheezes, and doubles over in a fit of chuckles. “You know he wouldn’t _dare_ to do something that’d annoy you,” he says between breaths. “He probably likes you more than he likes me,” Woojin muses, straightening back to his usual posture after getting over the initial rush of amusement. “Come on—it’s just _Grease Lightning_ , and that’s it.”

Jihoon doesn’t hesitate: “No.”

But Woojin refuses to back down. “Please?”

“I said, no.”

“Jihoon—”

“Don’t try to give me the puppy eyes, they won’t work on me,” Jihoon huffs, and turns the other way. Fortunately, Woojin’s as stubborn as he is, and he knows how to hit it where it hurts. (Or, triggers. Whatever.)

“Huh,” Woojin draws the word out, and when Jihoon’s shoulders tense up, he knows he’s got his attention; “I guess you don’t have to, I mean… I was expecting too much of you. I should’ve known you would’ve forgotten how to dance by now, sorry,” he says, and swallows down his laughter when he notices Jihoon clenching his fists. “You can forget I ever even asked.”

Jihoon whirls around to face him, and he pins Woojin with the most heated, competitive glare he can summon. “I did _not_ forget how to dance,” he objects immediately, and stalks over towards Woojin, who has already moved back by one step. “Fine, teach me. How hard could it be?”

“Famous last words,” Woojin says sagely, trying to come up with as many smart-ass comments as he can as a way to distract himself from their close proximity. A fired up Jihoon, it appears, doesn’t understand the concept of personal space—exhibit A, their noses nearly touching in this moment, eyes close enough for Woojin to pick up the combative glint in Jihoon’s orbs.

“I’ll learn the choreography in no time,” Jihoon vows, and Woojin doesn’t doubt it.

As it turns out, Woojin wasn’t wrong in his choice to have faith in Jihoon. Though his movements, stiff and a little springy, do enough to make it obvious he hasn’t danced in a long while, he manages to pick up the dance moves with fervor, and what he lacks in flow he makes up with passion; even if Woojin doesn’t know whether the passion stems from Jihoon’s long lost love for dancing or if it’s just him determined to make Woojin eat his words.

Forty minutes after Woojin began to teach Jihoon the moves, the both of them are sprawled on the floor of the stage, sweat clinging to their skin and drenching their clothes. Fortunately, the room has air fresheners, and that might be the only thing keeping the theatre from smelling like adolescent perspiration.

“Told you,” Jihoon bites out, sounding triumphant and proud even if he’s sweating at least three more times than Woojin. He is wearing a proud smile on his lips.

Woojin laughs, and finds it in him to say: “I’ve never doubted you.”

The words cause silence to ensue; Jihoon’s not smiling anymore, looking at Woojin with an unreadable expression. Woojin hopes it’s nothing bad, and thinks, maybe he should’ve said something less personal. But he doesn’t have too much time to mope over things said and done, because Jihoon says, in a quiet that’s nearly muted, “I know.”

“I’m going to change,” Jihoon suddenly announces, pushing himself up from his sitting position with his palms. He stretches his arms together once he’s standing up, making a face when the bones make a sound. “I’ll see you later,” he says, bidding goodbye. Woojin’s eyes stay rooted on him as he leaves, and even after he can’t see Jihoon’s retreating back anymore, he watches the space left behind.

Maybe that’s why he practically _leaps_ in his seat when he feels someone placing their hands on his shoulders, just barely stopping himself from screaming.

“Calm down,” a familiar voice says, and Woojin relaxes, almost instantly, after he figures out who the voice belongs to—it’s just Seongwoo, who must’ve come in at some point. Woojin stands up and turns on his heels; finds himself face to face with a particularly entertained Ong Seongwoo. “So, you and Jihoon?”

Against his own will, Woojin flushes. “Why does everyone think—”

“I was just going to ask if you practiced with him,” Seongwoo interposes, and Woojin, realizing his mistake, wants nothing more than to be consumed by the ground. On an occasion that’s notably rare, Seongwoo doesn’t prod for more information on Woojin’s slip-up. “You found out, didn’t you?”

Woojin gulps, but he’s not shocked—he’d expected Seongwoo to know about Jihoon’s background, because Seongwoo _has_ been around for a little while. If someone knew about a student’s background, it’d be him. “Yeah,” Woojin mutters, and adds, “what about it?”

Seongwoo’s eyes turn calculative. “Huh,” he says; “I’m surprised Jihoon hasn’t caught on to what you’re doing.”

“You mean,” Woojin stumbles, right after he fights the urge to choke on air, “you _knew_?”

Seongwoo’s face morphs into the look of someone offended, and Woojin realizes he’d probably worded that in a way it’d rub off wrong on someone else. He opens his mouth, ready to apologize, but Seongwoo beats him first. “I know everything that goes on in here,” he says indignantly; “it’s _my_ realm, you know,” he adds dryly.

The only thing Woojin can do is smile sheepishly and hope the older won’t hold his previous comment against him. With only a few weeks to go until the production, he doesn’t need to make an enemy out of Seongwoo. “You never said anything.”

“At first, I wasn’t going to,” Seongwoo admits, “but I had to let you know, Woojin, he’s going to find out soon if you’re not careful. I mean, could you be _more_ obvious?” he scoffs, but Woojin doesn’t pick up any genuine spite.

Woojin _knows_. “Yeah,” he whispers; “I know that. Jihoon… knowing him, he’s probably already suspicious now.”

“You’re aware of the risks, aren’t you?”

_You know he’s more than capable of pushing you away for good, don’t you?_

“I know what I signed up for when I started,” Woojin says. “I didn’t go in blind.”

Seongwoo smiles with teeth. “Then I’m no longer morally obligated to try and stop you,” he states; “not that I think you would’ve stopped.”

Woojin returns the smile, and throws his focus away from the pressure rising in his throat. “Yeah,” he agrees, “I wouldn’t have. Someone has to do it.”

“And you think the person is you?”

“I think it’s anyone who was willing to try. Anyone could’ve tried to help Jihoon, because… because if you knew the truth, wouldn’t it be easy to see how he’s suffering?” He points out, and Seongwoo’s smile freezes. Woojin doesn’t want to point any fingers. But at the same time, Seongwoo has known this longer than Woojin has, and he hasn’t done anything to help Jihoon free himself from his fright—the jab, while uncharacteristic, is satisfying to deliver.

“I’m not saying I’m the right person for the job. Hell, I don’t even know _half_ of the things I’m doing—but if I’m at least trying, I think that’s better than sitting around and doing nothing.”

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:** Track 5 of CD 3 — [_The Name of Life_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?annotation_id=annotation_229845&feature=iv&src_vid=uhpZI-Rwkv0&v=iigoQu8aJII).

Seongwoo wouldn’t consider himself to be someone who takes the words of others to heart.

It might very well be self-centered of him, but Seongwoo doesn’t trust the opinions of those who aren’t: himself, Hwang Minhyun (boyfriend privileges, but the data states that Minhyun is almost always right, even when it’s on matters that prove Seongwoo wrong), or his own reflection. He doesn’t take advice from students, and makes it a habit to laugh in the face of someone who tries to put him in his place—he doesn’t even take _Dongho_ too seriously, and Dongho is among the short list of those he respects.

That’s why it comes as a staggering surprise when Seongwoo’s head replays Woojin’s words continuously, like a broken record he’s thrown at the wall half a dozen times but keep playing anyway. _I think that’s better than sitting around and doing nothing_ , in the span of a little over twenty-four hours, has become Seongwoo’s least favourite sentence.

Since _when_ did he start taking other people’s words seriously? Seongwoo wants, more than anything, to go back to the days when Woojin was nothing more than a little runt forced to be a part of his production with a little more speck of potential than some of the kids he’d known longer. At least _then_ he only saw Woojin as yet another student to guide, but never as someone he’d actually be taking advice from.

But things have changed, because now he can’t look at Jihoon without breaking eye contact after less than two seconds (which is mortifying, because Seongwoo is used to having the last word—or rather _stare_ , in this context), the guilt always finding a way to twist the generally peaceful thoughts kept in his head into something more hateful; into something more _accusing_ , never failing to point a finger at him for being a guilty party when all Seongwoo was— _has been_ —trying to do is to let Jihoon be able to dig himself out of the hole he’d placed himself in.

“Not everyone can be like you, Seongwoo,” were the words of advice left by Minhyun when Seongwoo confided in him the night before, and the words weigh heavily on his mind; they  put things into another perspective. Seongwoo has been expecting Jihoon to be able to get himself out of his fear of the stage, just being there and _waiting_ while Jihoon battled with his longing for the stage and his simultaneous fear—just standing still and doing nothing, all because Seongwoo knows that if he were in Jihoon’s position, the longing would be able to triumph easily.

Up until Woojin and Minhyun pointed out otherwise, that was the only possibility he ever even considered.

He’d never thought he could be wrong on his approach, but maybe, he should’ve done something instead of waiting for a day that might never even come.

“Can I have everyone’s attention?” he calls out to the crowd, and waits until the people in the theatre—actors and backstage crew alike, not to mention the new addition of orchestra members who’d begun to practice with them as the days counted closer and closer until opening night—stopped doing whatever they were in the middle of, voices quieting down to a hush. “There’s something I’d like to see.”

Confused murmurs begin to break out in the crowd, and in the corner of his eyes, he notices Minhyun looking at him knowingly. (Of course, leave it to Hwang Minhyun to read him like an open book.)

“Woojin, could you run some lines from the fourth scene?”

At the sudden request, Seongwoo can see Woojin look around him, almost dazed, the perfect picture of confusion. “But Hyungseob’s not here—”

“You can do it with Jihoon instead.”

The room was quiet before, but now, the room erupts with frenzied whispers of questions and speculations; he can see it in everyone’s eyes. Confusion, the most evident emotion—but in Woojin’s, who’s looking at him with eyes bulged wide, the only hint Seongwoo picks up on is respect.

Seongwoo should’ve done this years ago; he’s late, and he shouldn’t be the receiving end of Woojin’s respect—it’s not something he deserves. Seongwoo looks away, and chooses to behave as if he isn’t mentally tormented by the sudden reappearance of his conscience.

Though people continue to talk, he can see Jihoon clearly, making out the outline of his form standing still; not having budged an inch since Seongwoo’s announcement, despite Woojin attempting to get him back into commission by poking his shoulder. “Jihoon, come on, this isn’t the right time to shut down,” he can hear Woojin saying, and Jihoon finally _moves_ , breaking free of whatever was keeping him frozen. Still, even though he follows Woojin to the stage, his movements are blocky, and he takes his time.

That’s alright. Seongwoo won’t rush him.

Woojin is the one who gets on stage first, never hesitating. But he doesn’t move towards the center, and waits for Jihoon, who hasn’t taken the first step to climb up from the ground. Smiling gently, he outstretches a hand for Jihoon to take. “It’s alright,” Woojin says, still offering his hand even if Jihoon’s are clenched at his side. “Come on, Jihoon. You can do it,” he encourages, and something must’ve passed silently between the both of them—Jihoon latching his eyes onto Woojin, the two of them sharing a look undecipherable to the ones who can only watch from a distance, Seongwoo included—because a few seconds later, Jihoon takes Woojin’s hand, and goes up the stage.

Seongwoo doesn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until his chest starts to constrict.

To a person who isn’t used to seeing Jihoon having an expression on his face that isn’t contempt, bemusement, or just… no emotion at all, being able to see the raw fear that paints itself across his visage must be something new; even Jihoon, who keeps a mask most meticulously out of all of them, is human too—sometimes, there are occasions that arise where he becomes unable to control what shows on his face, just like everybody else.

 _There_ , Seongwoo thinks. He’s sent the ball rolling—now all that’s left of him to do is stay still and watch what happens next.

“Are you ready?” Woojin asks, and the only reason Seongwoo knows what he’s saying is because he can read their lips from where he’s sitting. Without a word, Jihoon gives a terse nod, and that’s all the cue Woojin needs to begin.

Jihoon stumbles over his line, the first few times. Seongwoo doesn’t feel disappointed, or any other negative emotion he would’ve felt had Jihoon been anyone else. He’s _trying_ to be more understanding, to do what he wasn’t able to do before he had the idea knocked into his head; for Jihoon, being forced into a situation like this _can’t_ be easy, even if Seongwoo’s only trying to help. The crowd, now silent as they watch, doesn’t help. Multiple times, he catches Jihoon’s eyes darting towards the audience, even if all he really needs to do is to have faith in himself, and focus on the only other person on stage—Woojin.

As the scene progresses, however, he can see the shift in Jihoon’s stance. The way he stops hunching over himself when he realizes the crowd isn’t there to boo him, or to judge him needlessly; that all they’re doing is watching, focusing on the performance of someone who hasn’t stood on stage as an actor for _years_ now. Seongwoo has to put a lid on his emotions with all the self-control he never knew he had to stop himself from _yelling_ in excitement when Jihoon’s performance regains some life, instead of having him stutter over his lines and delivering them a beat or two later than the cue that Seongwoo _knows_ he has memorized.

It’s nothing as grand as any of the performances Jihoon delivered in the past, but it’s a start, and as far as starts go, things could be much worse.

The audience erupts with cheers when the two of them finish the scene. Someone in the audience shouts, “you _go_ Jihoon!” and the attention makes the still emotionally vulnerable Jihoon to blush, ears as red as his flushed cheeks. That, apparently, is all it takes for everyone else to begin shouting their own words of encouragement; Seongwoo doesn’t know if it’s possible for a human being to get any redder.

“I told you, you could do it!” is Woojin’s own brand of encouragement, and out of everything else the others have said, even if Seongwoo isn’t standing closely to them both, he notices how those words seem to be the ones that strike the deepest impression in Jihoon, leaving him to look at Woojin with a gradual grin building on his lips.

 _Ah, young love_.

“Good job, Jihoon,” Seongwoo says, after everyone else has calmed down and he can say what he wants to say without having to raise his voice. “You’re hired.”

Jihoon stares at Seongwoo like he’s grown a second head. “Um, what?”

“I said,” Seongwoo starts off, trying to sound exasperated even when all he feels right now is pride and a little bit of relief knowing his actions hadn’t done anything to deepen Jihoon’s fear of the stage, “you’re hired. Congratulations, you’re now the understudy for Doody.”

Once more, the kids begin to talk, but Seongwoo doesn’t pay them any mind; all he zeroes in on is the way Jihoon’s face shows his surprise, clear as day, and he staggers backward at the sudden announcement. Woojin has to be the one to steady him so he doesn’t fall, resting a hand on Jihoon’s back just as his knees begin to wobble.

“We’ve only got a while to go until opening night, so don’t slack off when learning your lines,” he says, as if he doesn’t know Jihoon probably would’ve memorized most of the musical by heart at this point. In a lower voice, he adds, “good to have you back, Jihoon.”

(Minhyun’s looking at him with unconcealed pride, and Seongwoo responds to it with a greasy wink when everyone else has looked away. The pride falls, and Minhyun’s face morphs into fond irritation.

Seongwoo _beams_.)

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:** Track 6 of CD 3 — [_You Can Become A Hero_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3wNQHnEXBLs).

“Oi, pass the cider.”

“It’s right next to you, dumbass.”

“Come on, _hyung_ , let’s not fight—”

Guanlin, sitting in the space left between Woojin and Jihoon, does a valiant attempt at playing mediator for two parties who do a great job pretending to maintain a great deal animosity where there’s no such thing (or at least, not anymore). He reaches to take the aforementioned can of _Chilsung_ , even though it’s closer to Jihoon who’d requested the drink in the first place than himself, and pushes the packaging into Jihoon’s expecting palms.

“Thanks for being a helpful junior, Guanlin,” Jihoon croons, and blows a raspberry at Woojin. “And you, Woojin, thanks for nothing.”

Undaunted, Woojin bares his teeth. “You’re welcome, Jihoon! Anytime, seriously.”

Guanlin, the youngest of the trio, looks between the both of them; a questioning expression worn like a heart on his sleeve. “Uh,” he starts, with the intelligence of your run of the mill teenager possessing above average intelligence, “did I miss something here?”

“Nah,” Woojin denies, swatting away the suggestion without giving it much of a second thought. “Can you believe this, though? Opening night— _tomorrow_.”

Throughout the months, the goal they’d been steadily working towards, opening night had never seemed to be anything more than a twinkling light at the end of a tunnel that seemed to go on forever—until _now_ , because the light is now just ahead of them, and they’ve got less than twenty-four hours until the decisive moment that’d dictate whether or not the grueling days of work were a waste, or if the time spent are bound to become something _great_.

More than just opening night, Woojin’s amazed he managed to even make it this far.

“I’m nervous,” Guanlin admits, to no one’s surprise. His role is _the_ most important one, after all; a mistake coming from him, and it could very well be the beginning of a chain of events towards something more bitter.

“You shouldn’t be,” Woojin says, giving Guanlin the most confident smile he can pull together. “You’ve worked hard, Guanlin. It’ll pay off.” And, after further consideration, “it _has_ to.”

Guanlin attempts to return Woojin’s smile, falling short. “I don’t know,” he says, and looks away, instead letting his eyes fall on the nightlife of the city. The moon isn’t shining, clouds hanging overcast, and the city looks barely alive; the only lights that cast colours to overtake the darkness of the night coming from the local businesses and corporates alike. At night, his features are obscured, but that doesn’t stop him from being remarkably noticeable, with all his sharp angles. “I’ve tried a lot, but so have you,” he remarks, and the smile becomes a little less strained. “Both you and Jihoon _hyung_.”

Jihoon blinks, slowly, but a smile haunts his lips. “You could say that,” he agrees, because there’s nothing for him to decline from that statement. Jihoon, for the most part, still feels like most of this is a dream; that one day he’ll just wake up and find out that Woojin, Guanlin, and ever gathering the courage to standing on stage again was never real. But time’s passed, and he’s still stuck here—and his dreams drag out this long. So, he has begun to put his faith into everything this is; but only barely, because things might’ve changed, and _himself_ , as a person, must’ve grown (if this weren’t a dream, indeed). Above all, however, Jihoon is _wary_ —has always been, and though he _desperately_ wants to give his all in believing all of this _is_ as tangible and true as it seems, there’s a part of him that simply _can’t_.

And, that kind of _sucks_ , but then again, a change so deeply rooted doesn’t come in a single night.

“There’s always the chance I won’t perform in the end, though,” Jihoon comments, and neither Guanlin nor Woojin disprove of that, because what he’s saying is true. Jihoon, unlike them, is an understudy. Whether or not he’ll perform is a matter of whether or not Hyungseob makes it tomorrow—and even though his absence has been _glaring_ , compared to his spotless record from the previous years, Woojin has faith in Hyungseob that he’ll pull through  for opening night. Skipping practice is one thing, but not making it for the performance is another entirely.

“Even if you don’t perform, you’ve already grown a lot,” Woojin points out his observation, and when his stare flits towards Jihoon, he finds the other already staring back at him. “There’s always next year—for you to perform, I mean.” He barely stops himself from botching his words, because Jihoon’s eyes are distracting, and it’s hard not to trip over himself when faced with the earthy browns.

Jihoon doesn’t say anything, and for a fleeting moment, Woojin wonders if there’s something on his face. “I don’t know if I want to try out next year,” he says, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Maybe I’ll begin studying more.”

Woojin would’ve been more concerned regarding Jihoon’s statement had he not grown accustomed to reading him. “Stop lying,” he calls him out, frowning as he does; “you _hate_ studying.”

Jihoon splutters, going a little red in the face—but it isn’t anger, and runs more along the lines of him being flustered. “You took a look at my report card _one_ time.”

“Not my fault you didn’t stop me in time.”

“It wasn’t yours to see in the first place.”

“You left it lying on the coffee table. _Opened_.”

“I didn’t.” Jihoon sulks, and with a harrumph, turns his head away from Woojin to instead look at the view, not unlike what Guanlin is doing. “My parents were reading it and left it like that…”

Woojin snickers, and without another word, reaches out to ruffle Jihoon’s hair. Jihoon doesn’t push him away, nor does he flinch, but he _does_ make a deal out of snarling—maybe with the intention of having the action seem intimidating, but Woojin’s been more intimidated by a puppy in the past. “Stop snarling,” he ticks.

Guanlin sighs, caught in the middle of them, but grins fondly. “Woojin _hyung_ , don’t bother Jihoon _hyung_ like that.”

Just before Jihoon can rattle about his victory, Guanlin deadpans: “And Jihoon _hyung_ , you could tone it down a bit on the flirting, maybe?”

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:** Track 7 of CD 3 — [_Icarus_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FehA9OwZflw).

Five minutes until their last run through—the _final_ practice, something that Woojin thought never would’ve come—and Hyungseob still isn’t here, leaving the rest of them to scatter all over the school, searching every nook and cranny for a person whose absence is notable enough to cause a shitstorm so early on in the morning.

(Alright, _fine_. Technically speaking, it’s five minutes to 10 A.M. and it isn’t _that_ early, but still—Hyungseob is missing, and none of their calls are getting through; the situation, no matter _what_ time it is, is Dire. With an uppercase ‘D’.)

“Have you tried calling his house?” A frenzied Seongwoo (a rare sight as it is)  asks one of the cast members holding a phone, and receives a shake of the head in return. “Then _try_!”

Woojin, who has just finished searching all over the second floor of the school, doesn’t know what to do. And somehow, that’s worse than having something to do, because at least _then_ he would’ve been able to help; now, with his search bearing no result, he feels _useless_ and that feeling just multiplies by itself every time someone comes with a reminder that it’s not just anyone who’s missing, but it’s Hyungseob. Ahn Hyungseob. The person Woojin’s tried so hard to cling onto, not because he _fancies_ him (well, not _only_ that), but also because he genuinely cares for the once bright-eyed boy who’d recently turned into a shadow of his past self.

He’d be damned if he weren’t worried.

“Is there anything else I can do?” He tries to keep the desperacy at bay, because panicking would only make the situation worse, but he must’ve failed if the pitying look in Seongwoo’s eyes is of any indication. Woojin swallows back a nervous sound, and resolves to at least _try_ to keep himself from turning into a jittery mess; so he bites on his the inside of cheek to the point it starts hurting, and it’s a twisted sort of relief—the pain, at least, makes it so he feels something other than worry.  “Please, there has to be _something_.”

Seongwoo’s mouth opens, presumably to say something that Woojin sure hopes isn’t an apology because there’s nothing else he can do but wait, but before a single word drops, his phone buzzes in his pocket. Seongwoo’s mouth immediately clamps to a close, and he holds up a finger Woojin’s way, using his free hand to dig his phone out, picking up the call after his face betrays his surprise at the caller ID. “Hello, sir?”

A quick glimpse shows that the caller is Hyungseob’s father—Woojin recognizes the name, having memorized the name of Hyungseob’s parents a few years back—and a mix of relief and anticipation swirls in Woojin’s gut.

Some closure. _Finally_.

(Multiple possibilities appear in his head, ranging from something as serious as Hyungseob having a family matter that restricts him from appearing today, to an occasion as silly and trivial as him having slept through his alarm clock. Woojin hopes it’s something along the lines of the latter, because even if it’d cost Hyungseob an earful, it wouldn’t be anything so _dire_.)

His hopes crash and burn when Seongwoo’s expression darkens, from anticipation to muted horror, and his shoulders begin to tremble.

“I’m sorry, I must’ve heard wrong—can you repeat that?” Seongwoo asks, faint in a way Woojin’s never heard before. That does nothing to alleviate his worry, only helping it increase tenfold. “A _hospital_?” Woojin’s pulse quickens, and he sucks in a sharp breath when he realizes he hadn’t been breathing, caught up in the could’ve beens running wild in his head. “Could you send me the address, please? Thank you for letting me know.”

The words are mechanical, and Seongwoo’s movements mirror the stunned, _detached_ way his words sound; he hangs up slowly, and doesn’t move his phone back to where it was, only looking at it in his hand as if it were an object that had just fallen out of the sky. He doesn’t say anything, and silence stretches between the both of them, Woojin wanting to break it but having none of the finesse required to handle a situation that makes even _Seongwoo_ lose his voice.

“Well?” Woojin finally asks when the silence becomes too much. “What was that about?”

Seongwoo is still looking at his phone. “That was Hyungseob’s father,” he starts to say, eyes downcast. “Hyungseob’s in the emergency ward of the hospital.”

Ice cold dread washes over Woojin, and the breath is forced out of him; something inside him twists, and it _burns_. “I—what? You… This isn’t the time to be play around! If this is some kind of sick joke—”

“Do you think I’d _joke_ about something as serious as this?” Seongwoo’s voice grows louder in volume, to the point he’s almost shouting, and he barely falls short. “Pull yourself together, Woojin.” _You could say the same for yourself,_ Woojin blithely thinks, nearly sneering at the face of Seongwoo’s uncharacteristic state of unnerve. “I’m going to visit him,” he announces, and seems to shake himself out of the fear, forcing his courage to resurface. “Tell Chaeyeon she’s in charge of practice. I’ll be back later.”

“Oh no you don’t.” Woojin steps in Seongwoo’s way just as he was about to leave, and Seongwoo’s brows twitch in annoyance, but Woojin doesn’t back down. He _won’t_. “I’m coming with you.”

Seongwoo’s patience thins. “You have to _practice_ , Woojin. Show’s tonight.”

The last thing he has to worry about right now is the show, actually, because _Hyungseob_ is hurt and his state of wellbeing has far more weight than a single play. “I don’t—” Woojin barely stops himself from saying _I don’t care_ out loud, reminding himself that saying that to a person whose life has practically revolved around _this_ wouldn’t be wise, especially once he keeps in mind the turmoil Seongwoo must be going through at present moment. “I’m coming with you, and if you  don’t let me tag along now, I’ll _follow_ behind you.”

“Stubborn kid, aren’t you?” Woojin doesn’t deny the accusation. “Fine,” he says briskly, and Woojin steps away, letting Seongwoo walk on his intended path. He tags along behind Seongwoo, easily matching the pace of his steps with the older’s.

In a way, he’s grateful that Seongwoo isn’t taking his time walking, because it leaves barely any slot of time for Woojin’s head to burst with all the possibilities he’s come up with to reason _why_ Hyungseob is in the hospital—the _emergency ward_ at that, leaving out possibilities of an illness like the common cold. They pass by familiar faces, some _questioning_ faces, but Seongwoo doesn’t give any of them an explanation; Woojin follows suit, even when they come across a curious Guanlin. He feels _bad_ , keeping Guanlin out of the loop, but they’ve got no time to waste for explanations— and he doesn’t feel guilty for long, because the only constant thing running through his head right now is _Hyungseob, Hyungseob, Hyungseob_.

Seongwoo’s car, unexpectedly a muted shade as far as colorings go and looking more of a suburban mother type of vehicle rather than a rockstar’s, is parked near the entrance of the school. Woojin sits at the front, and in his haste, almost forgets to buckle up until Seongwoo revs up the car. His grip on the steering wheel is tight, and Woojin fears that he’d go over the speed limit in his less-than-calm state until he actually begins to drive; and yeah, he’s going fast, but Woojin can see the way Seongwoo _tries_ to drive calmly, even if his grip is tight enough to make his knuckles bleed white.

There’s no sound at all in the car aside from the engine, and neither move to turn on the radio. Woojin stays deathly still, eyes fixed on the road ahead, and somber silence looms over the both of them; Woojin doesn’t have it in him to _say_ something ( _anything_ ), and it’s obvious Seongwoo doesn’t either.

That’s fine. It’s easier to be like this, not bothering to conceal their worry on the situation, rather than acting like nothing’s wrong—like Hyungseob isn’t holed up in some hospital room, condition dire enough to hold him in the emergency ward.

The car ride feels like an eternity, but when they finally arrive, Seongwoo immediately finding an empty parking spot barely any minutes after driving inside hospital property, Woojin takes off his seatbelt, and slams the car door open. He wants to _run_ , more than anything, but he doesn’t know which room Hyungseob is in—thankfully, Seongwoo seems to share his sentiments in wanting to hurry, because he doesn’t take his sweet time in turning off the engine. Within seconds, he joins Woojin outside, and then they’re off towards the main building of the hospital—white (overbearingly so), imposing, dreadful.

Woojin's steps are brisk, and his breathing more off beat than usual, but he forces himself to at least _try_ to calm down; maybe Hyungseob's condition isn't as serious as it seems to be, and maybe it's just a case of diarrhea gone wrong. Then again, the way neither him nor Seongwoo know _anything_ about his situation aside from the fact he's in the hospital makes for things to become more worrying than they are, and he fails, pathetically so, in his attempt to stay rational. As ( _almost_ ) always.

He hasn't been to a hospital in years. The last time, he'd been twelve and he'd fallen off a tree in an attempt to rescue a neighbor's cat—the fall had broken his legs, and he needed to wear crutches for a period of time, but that was it. Woojin's immune system is plenty strong (at least, that's what his mother seems to think), and he doesn't have any experiences in being able to relate to some of his peers' sicknesses that require overnight hospital stay. Maybe that's why the inside of the hospital, clinical in its cleanness and spotless whitewashed walls, forces him—against himself who just wants to stay focused and look ahead because _Hyungseob_ is in here somewhere and every step brings Woojin closer to him—to look around in wonder. _You can gawk later,_ he reminds himself, and falls behind Seongwoo as the older leads them towards the emergency ward, having gotten directions from the lady at the reception earlier. _Stay focused._

The emergency ward, at first, doesn't look much different than any other hospital parts. But that doesn't have much gravity in its statement, considering it's _Woojin_ who thinks that. Still, the place _almost_ seems plain and unassuming; Woojin wouldn't have thought twice if it weren't for the rush of nurses and doctors on standby alike coming in and out of the small 'rooms' (they don't have a door, each spot for the patients separated by a white curtain), some of them barking out orders to the ones who are also, _shocker_ , rushing practically _everywhere_ to make sure everything in the ward runs smoothly.

In other words, the emergency ward paints a perfect picture of chaos, and Woojin's throat closes up when he thinks of just _what_ Hyungseob could be going through. "Why is everyone so... frenzied?" he asks lamely, and Seongwoo halts in his steps, just to throw him an odd look over his shoulder.

"It's called the emergency ward for a reason," he answers, and does what he might think is a smile. It falls on harsh angles, though that might be the obvious worry that outshines any other emotion he must be experiencing. "Come on."

Not needing to be told twice, Woojin catches up to walk next to Seongwoo instead of behind him, and stops when Seongwoo arrives in front of the receptionist, who's busy enough to be answering calls in between pauses instead of simply sitting and staring at nothing like the first receptionist they'd come across. "Excuse me," Seongwoo says, when the receptionist has stopped answering calls; the woman's attention shifts towards them, and Woojin can read the tired look she wears like a second skin easily. It's a familiar sight, something he's had a fair share of from looking at the mirror on his worst days. "Could you tell me where Ahn Hyungseob is?"

"Please wait." She types something on the computer, presumably searching Hyungseob's name in the hospital's record of patients. "He's been moved to one of the rooms," she says, a few seconds later. "If you'd like to visit him, he's on the seventh floor. Room 703."

Seongwoo mutters his thanks, and the both of them take the elevator to go up to the seventh floor. Jazz music plays, but even through the soothing, sultry voices of the singers, Woojin's worry doesn't decrease by much; Hyungseob might've been moved to a room already, instead of staying in the emergency ward, but if he's been moved to a _room_ , that translates to an overnight stay. (At least, that's what he's gathered from his limited experience with hospitals). An overnight stay means a lot of things. Woojin hopes, almost desperately and against whatever little odds there are, that Hyungseob's condition isn't as terrible as the connotations of what an overnight stay could mean.

The hall of the seventh floor is quiet; Woojin's ears ring, and it might be because the cacophony of noises earlier had left a mark now unfulfilled by the deathly silence. Seongwoo takes a right turn, following the instructions left on the walls (701-710 to the left, 711-720 to the right), and Woojin follows closely behind, heartbeat growing louder and louder with every step bringing him closer to Hyungseob.

Hyungseob's room is the second room from the corner. Seongwoo raises his hand, and raps his knuckles against the door, knocking.

Three heartbeats later, the door swings open, and they're greeted by the sight of a harried, older man. He has lines underneath his eyes, and his face is gaunt; Woojin nearly doesn't recognize him as Hyungseob's father, because the last time he met the man, he'd been smiling, all kind lines against a beaming face. The person he sees now is a stark contrast to the person he saw back then, and it _terrifies_ him.

"Seongwoo," the man breathes, and his very voice _exhales_ gloom. Then, he notices Woojin next to Seongwoo, and he frowns. "Who are you?"

"Hyungseob's friend," Woojin introduces, and he nearly _cringes_ at how his words come out in a flurry. He should be able to stay more composed, damn it. "I'm Woojin."

He can see the plain hesitance in the man's eyes, but he's able to push that aside, because then he says: "Come on in, then. Hyungseob’s still asleep."

The hospital room, like every other room, is bleached in colour and smells of antiseptic. Woojin hates it, but what he hates more is how Hyungseob's bed is obscured by a pale yellow curtain; he can _see_ Hyungseob's shadow, certainly, but he can't read anything from it other than Hyungseob laying down, out of commission.

"What happened?" Seongwoo prods quietly, _carefully_.

Hyungseob's father takes his time in responding. Woojin reads the sadness in his hunched over form, clear as day. "You might want to sit down," he warns, and both Seongwoo and Woojin take a seat on the couch propped next to the entrance of the bathroom. He doesn't really register the plush cushion underneath him, too busy trying to steel his nerves to the best of his ability; this can't be anything _good_ , if they're being told to sit down to take the information. "Hyungseob..."

 _Spit it out,_ Woojin nearly says, the anxiety eating away at him, but knows the best thing he can do in his situation is remain silent, and hope the desperate curiosity isn't too obvious on his face.

"My wife and I found Hyungseob in the bathroom," he says, and his eyes are far off, even when they're latched onto Seongwoo and Woojin; it's like he's seeing _through_ them, his mind somewhere else. "He was collapsed in front of the sink, and..." Very obviously, he hesitates, but his next words are a heavy blow, to both Woojin _and_ Seongwoo:

"There was a bottle of sleeping pills next to him. I didn't even _know_ he'd gotten sleeping pills, my wife didn't either—but it was _there_ , and it was nearly empty," he chokes out the words, tears pooling at the edge of his vision, "he... he was breathing, thank God, but his pulse was barely there. We called the ambulance. He was rushed in the ward by the paramedics, but he's... Hyungseob's condition is stable now."

Woojin says, in a tiny voice: "He tried to _kill_ himself?"

Tact has never been his strong suit. Hyungseob's father flinches at the reference to Hyungseob's attempt, but he nods jerkily, and doesn't trust himself to affirm the suspicion verbally.

"But _why_?" Seongwoo asks, and though Hyungseob's father looks lost at the question, Woojin _knows_.

Everything makes sense. They fall into place perfectly: Hyungseob growing withdrawn, Hyungseob's sudden periods of absence, Hyungseob's eyes losing their characteristic shine. The signs had been there the _entire_ time, and Woojin _hates_ himself more than anything in that very moment, because he _knows_ he could've tried more. He _should_ have tried more, to get Hyungseob to open up, to latch onto Hyungseob by the collar and to yank him far away from the demons inside him.

He should've done _more_ , and he didn't. Now his failure burns brightly, the reminder of what he hadn't done, what he _should have fucking done_ , painful and terrible and it's _exactly_ what he deserves.

(Hell, does he even have the _right_ to visit Hyungseob like this? Does he have it in him to look at Hyungseob, when things are alright once more—because they _have_ to, Hyungseob's story can't just end like this, he's the person who deserves a happy ending more than anything—knowing full well he's the reason why things have turned out this terribly?)

"I don't know," Hyungseob's father croaks, and Woojin feels the shame burning brightly in his cheeks. He curls his palms into a fist, and resolves to keep his eyes straight on his lap, not trusting himself to look at Hyungseob's father without betraying  the guilt that glows like embers in his eyes. "He didn't—he didn't leave a note." Seongwoo doesn't say anything to that, and Hyungseob's father notices Woojin's state. He asks, hesitantly: "Hey, kid, are you alright?"

 _No. I'm not_ fucking _alright,_ Woojin shouts in his head. He sounds guilty. Furious. _Scared_. "I think I need some air," he whispers, and more than anything, right now he's glad that the hospital room has a balcony. Woojin gets up from the couch, the piece of furniture groaning as he does, and walks the expanse of the room—slides the door open, closes it behind him, and stands near the railings.

He takes in a sharp breath, and counts to three in his head, building up all his tension before giving shaky release. Woojin fixes his eyes straight ahead, looking at the buildings and all the life that exists in the morning, but even as he tries to keep his mind away from what's destructing him, _twisting_ like a knife from the inside—he can't.

Hyungseob nearly died. _Died_. Woojin doesn't know what saved him, in the end; did he take too little? Did his body fight it off? He doesn't _know_ , and the only thing he knows now is Hyungseob—he'd undergone something that might never leave him the same again. Only seconds later, however, Woojin stamps himself with the label of an idiot, because even if Hyungseob hadn't tried to... to _die_ , there was no doubt he hadn't been the same Hyungseob that Woojin was introduced to years ago for a while now. Maybe, that Hyungseob is gone, consumed by whatever is eating at him from the inside. There's nothing Woojin can do about that. What's happened has happened, and Woojin's only left with the harsh reminder of his failure for not _being there_ enough, for not trying hard enough.

Right now, the guilt is fresh, but Woojin knows he'll have to live with it for the rest of his life.

He doesn't recognize Seongwoo's presence until the older is standing next to him, but once Woojin registers the addition, he doesn't flinch. He doesn't look at Seongwoo either, and keeps his stare firmly on the city ahead.

"What are you thinking?" Seongwoo finally asks, after the excruciating seconds of silence that Woojin spent with the taunting voices inside his head.

"Nothing," he lies.

Seongwoo scoffs. "Of course you're not thinking about anything," he mutters under his breath, and whispers something along the lines of troublesome kids. Woojin still doesn't want to look at Seongwoo—what if he does and Seongwoo can _read_ the guilt? That'll lead to more questions, and Woojin doesn't think he can talk for long without breaking down in the middle of it all.

"Hyungseob has been dealing with a lot, hasn't he?" muses Seongwoo.

"No shit." Woojin snorts, not caring that he's with someone who might get him in trouble for using profanity. He has bigger things to worry about.

"Now that I think about it," Seongwoo says, and Woojin might be a little surprised that he's taking all of this information far better than how Woojin's processing; "this might be my fault."

Woojin's brain freezes. _This should be_ my _fault,_ he thinks, but instead he says: "Huh?"

"He's been like this ever since I gave the lead role to Guanlin," Seongwoo sighs, and when Woojin's eyes finally find themselves on the older, he's _shocked_ to see him look so pitiful. "It was never because Hyungseob was lacking. I wish he knew that."

"Then why didn't you give the lead to him?"

"He's been doubting himself, ever since the last production," Seongwoo answers, and taps his fingers on the handle of the railing. "I figured, maybe a smaller role with little chance of error was what he needed to get back on his feet."

Woojin barely stops himself from scowling. "You figured wrong."

"Yeah," Seongwoo agrees; "I miscalculated."

"You seem to do that a lot," Woojin says, recalling how Seongwoo had called the wrong decision regarding how he'd handled Jihoon, too.

Seongwoo smiles sadly. "I'm not a natural teacher," is all he says, and he gives a short, strangled sort of laugh. This is the first time Woojin has seen Seongwoo outright admit a fault of his, and it's _strange_ , but more than anything, it's human. "This isn't your fault, Woojin."

Woojin's stance goes rigid. "I never said anything about this being my fault," he bites out.

"Drop the bravado," Seongwoo says bluntly. "I recognize guilt when I see it, Woojin."

Something in Woojin wants to fight; wants to lash out, to _deny_ the guilt, because he can't have people reading him just like this. But another part of him, one that's bigger and makes up most of him, is _tired_. All of these emotions do nothing more than suck him dry of energy, and all Woojin wants to do right now is to curl up into a ball, and maybe do nothing more than let the guilt consume him.

He knows that won't end well. He _knows_ the chance of it going wrong is higher than having something like that make him feel better about the situation. But still, he _longs_. (And maybe, that's the most terrifying part.)

"I saw it coming," he ends up admitting, against the urge to do nothing more than stay silent. "I _knew_ he wasn't the same, that he'd changed. And I tried," he's quick to say, to _defend_ himself against the possible accusation of him being a passive bystander through it all, even when Seongwoo is showing nothing more than painful understanding, "but I didn't do enough. I should've been more insistent. Maybe then, none of this would've happened."

For the longest time, Seongwoo just _stares_ , and it's uncomfortable; Woojin feels pinpricks on his arms, and the judging, evaluating nature of Seongwoo's look makes him feel terribly small. "I'm not the most self-aware person, but I know I'm probably _not_ the best person to say this," he starts off, and Woojin idly wonders where this conversation is steering. "But have you ever thought that, in a situation as delicate as this, maybe there's just some things you can't change?"

Woojin stares blankly. "I don't get it."

" _Fate_ , Woojin," Seongwoo stresses; "life doesn't always go the way we want it, and maybe this was your first taste of it, but—sometimes, there are things that happen for a reason."

"Are you saying Hyungseob _deserves_ this?"

"No!" Seongwoo's quick to deny, and gives an affronted glare that Woojin meets challengingly. "That's not what I'm trying to say. What I mean is, there are some things that just _happen_ , with no way for you to stop it. Maybe, if you'd been more pushy, something like this would've happened faster." The words hurt, but they ring clearly in Woojin's ears. Seongwoo doesn't stop there. "Hyungseob is in terrible state right now, and that goes to show how cruel fate can be, but it doesn't mean all of this happened only because you didn't do _enough_."

A single piece of advice doesn't make all the taunting and blaming in his head to recede, but at least it _mutes_ them to a degree; still, Woojin feels like shit.

"I don't expect you to understand right away," Seongwoo says, "and maybe I just said that because I didn't want to feel like the single catalyst of this happening." He shrugs. "But, I've said what I wanted to say."

Is Woojin supposed to say thank you?

Seongwoo doesn't let Woojin's silence deter him, and instead, holds his wristwatch in front of his eyes. "It's nearly twelve," he remarks quietly; "we should be getting back."

Woojin throws a look over his shoulder, to the room where Hyungseob's form is still obscured by the yellow curtains. He doesn't feel like leaving—at least, not until Hyungseob gets up, and can let him have at least _some_ form of closure.

" _Woojin_ ," Seongwoo says, voice stern. "Time's not going to stop just because we're here."

 _Opening night is still going to happen regardless,_ Woojin translates in his head. _Quit moping._

But Woojin doesn't know if he can bring himself to perform in a state where he's consumed by his own self doubt and guilt, even when the latter's already piped down to a state where it's much less distressing than what it once was.

"I don't know," he says, at loss. He's worked hard for this, and doesn't know if he's ever worked harder for _anything_ in his entire life, but—

"Are you going to throw away all your effort, just like that?" Seongwoo's words are harsh, his look unreadable. "Do you think this is what Hyungseob would want?"

_Low blow._

"What do you mean?" Woojin's voice carries, face pinched and unsure.

"Consider this," Seongwoo starts, "Hyungseob is one of the people who first cheered you on. Don’t you remember?”

Woojin does. How could he forget? _You can do it_ , Hyungseob’s voice rings through his head, and Woojin _remembers_ how it’d felt when Hyungseob was the one who’d been one of the first people who’d given him faith—that he could pull of what he himself thought he couldn’t.

“Do you think he’d want you to throw that away for him?”

Woojin grits his teeth. “No,” he says, and the single syllable scalds his tongue.

Seongwoo’s eyes have taken a victorious glint, but Woojin has to admit, he _does_ have a faire point. “Then come on,” he says, and turns back, hands already on the handle of the door, ready  to open them. “We have a show to perform.”

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:** Track 8 of CD 3 — [_Flaws_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1E36WU9Wzf4).

The last time Jihoon stood backstage, clad in stage outfit and face powdered to the point having a picture taken with flash makes him look like a physically manifested ghost, was four years ago. Maybe five. Time has been jumbled together, blurry in its barrier ever since _that_ day; he only knows, with surety, that it has been a while. Practicing for a performance that might never come and actually standing backstage, seeing the crowd file in with their excited chatter scattering in the air, _knowing_ he’ll have to come out on the stage and face their judgment—that’s something entirely different, and Jihoon wonders how he’s still able to breathe properly.

“Jihoon?” They’ve probably been looking for him. This might be his own fault, disappearing a few minutes into a last minute pep talk before the last preparations had begun, but Jihoon couldn’t stand being there for another minute of _don’t get nervous, we can do this!_ If he’d stayed there longer, he would’ve gone stir crazy; because it just doesn’t _work_ like that, for him. The others might’ve been more confident in their abilities, but then again, the others hadn’t experienced a mistake like he had on stage on his last official performance. Just listening to someone assure him that he was going to do just _fine_ only made him want to _scream._

He reluctantly steps away from the slightly opened curtain, where he’d been taking a peek at the steadily growing audience. “What.”

Someone puts their hand on his shoulder, and he doesn’t know _how_ he’s able to instantly place it as Siyeon’s. Maybe that’s because her hands have a signature temperature to them—the way they’re never _that_ hot to the touch, how there’s always a chill to them even on the warmest days. Just like her personality, he supposes.

“You can’t just disappear on us like that,” she scolds, and it’s refreshing how she doesn’t bother to walk on eggshells around him. Everyone else has. “And—look at you, some of your lipstick’s wiped off,” she remarks after she cranes her neck for a better look of his face. He meets her glare with deadpan eyes. “Have you been licking your lips?”

Nervous habit, and she knows about that—this is her own way of asking if he’s alright, and this is what he understands, despite also knowing she’d deny her concern in a heartbeat.

“Does it matter?” he retorts, shifting his angle to one where she doesn’t have to strain her neck just to meet him at a more familiar level.

Siyeon rolls her eyes. “Lay it easy on the pride for _one_ second, won’t you?” she hisses, but takes something out of her pocket—it’s lipstick, the shade the makeup artists had used earlier to make sure he wouldn’t look deathly pale underneath all the stage lights when he performs. “Pucker up.”

Despite himself, he does as she says, and Siyeon applies the lipstick with precise, experienced movements. Once she’s done, she steps back, and examines her handiwork; a pleased grin appears on her lips. “I think I did that better than Sungyeon,” she announces, inadvertently bringing down the effort of the _actual_ makeup artist of the show. Jihoon knows she doesn’t mean it, though—after all, Sungyeon _is_ one of Siyeon’s closest friends. (That’s something he has to admire about the round-faced girl: not everyone has the galls to get close to someone like Siyeon.)

“You would say that,” he says, and chuckles when Siyeon throws him an affronted look.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demands.

“Exactly what you think it does?” Jihoon offers, and thoroughly enjoys how fond exasperation conjures in her eyes. At least, talking to her has made him feel more himself; maybe that’s what she’d intended to do, when she came up to him in the first place. “How long have we got until the show starts?”

Siyeon’s eyes widen in alarm at the reminder, and she quickly steals a glance at the clock hanging on the wall, right above Jihoon. “Ten minutes,” she says, and adds, “oh, thank God. I thought we only had a minute left or something.” She sags in obvious relief.

“I don’t go in until, what, the third scene?” Jihoon points out. “Would’ve been fine even if it’d been a minute until the start of the show.”

“And send everyone into frenzy because the show’s almost starting and the _understudy_ is missing?” Siyeon snorts. “It’s bad enough we don’t have the main actor, I’m pretty sure Seongwoo would break into his superstitions and think he’s _cursed_ if even the understudy goes missing.”

Jihoon can see the scene panning out in the eye of his mind, and has to stop himself from grinning.

“Hey,” Siyeon says, and all of a sudden, she gives him one of her wide smiles; a sight usually reserved for Kyla and Kyla _only_ , so Jihoon feels more than a little honored that she’s even bothering to let him be the receiving end. “Good luck out there, boss man. Kick some ass.”

“Thanks,” Jihoon says, and nods. Her smile grows wider. “I will.”

When he heads back towards the area where all the actors are assembled, his heart feels lighter in his chest. The fear is still there, but it has dissipated towards something more workable, and Jihoon’s grateful, more than anything, that he has people who believe in him.

Siyeon, who helps him in her own way, hidden beneath faked exasperation.

Woojin, who’s more outright in his support, being the first one to reach out after Jihoon’s blocked himself away from the stage.

Guanlin, who never stops encouraging him, even when he feels his legs giving out during practice, or whenever his mind draws a blank when it’s his turn to deliver his lines.

Seongwoo, who gave him the opportunity to stand on stage again, and has more than made up for his years of silence.

“Jihoon!” Woojin’s wearing his costume too, and Jihoon (quietly, and only in the safe confines of his mindspace) marvels at how well he suits the jacket Jihoon had designed himself—almost as if he were tailored specifically for the piece. “I was worried,” and then, he’s blushing (at presumably nothing, because Jihoon knows, more than anyone else, that Woojin _can’t_ be blushing because of him—his heart, after all, belongs to the same person Jihoon is replacing, and he’s self-aware enough to know his affections are painfully one-sided) when Woojin adds, stuttering in his delivery: “I mean, everyone was.”

It’s easy to fake a smile, to act like the words _everyone was_ doesn’t make his chest constrict at the reminder that Woojin doesn’t share his feelings, and he most likely never will. Jihoon’s stupid, falling for a person who’s hopelessly chasing after someone else, but it’s too late for him to convince himself that Woojin’s stupid charm is anything but endearing. His ‘stupid charm’, after all, was the main factor why Jihoon will stand on stage again after so long; it’s hard to turn that into something with negative connotations in his head.

“Yeah, sorry,” he says, and forces his heart rate to calm the _fuck_ down at the sight of Woojin’s beam. It’s just a beam. Everyone else beams. His own driver beams, and his breath doesn’t hitch when he sees the forty year-old beam; he hates how he can’t force himself to act the same towards Woojin.

“Hey, you’re going to do great out there, you know that?” Woojin offers, and smiles warmly. Jihoon wants to slap away the smile, because even the glimpse of it is giving him butterflies—how _revolting_. “So, don’t be nervous!”

“I’m not nervous,” he automatically denies, because opening up to Siyeon is one thing, and doing the same to Woojin is another. “I’ll outshine you on stage.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Woojin challenges; “I mean, I know I’m not a fossil like you when it comes to theatre experience, but I bet I could give you a run for your money.”

Jihoon scoffs. “We’ll see about that.”

 

 

 

 

The stage lights burn, but Jihoon doesn’t let himself cave into the fear.

He doesn’t dare to look at the audience, doesn’t _want_ to make the same mistakes he did. He keeps his head held  up high, delivers his lines, makes his limbs move along to the rhythm of the dances, never letting himself fall short.

Jihoon loses himself into his role, giving his all—raw emotions, passion, making sure everything he’s worked on for the past months to _show_ —in a way he he’d nearly forgotten he could; and drowns in the feeling he’d once lost.

 

 

 

 

 

Woojin and Guanlin, just as he’d expected, deliver an amazing performance—people would be hard pressed to believe they’ve just started out, and Jihoon feels pride swarming in his chest when he realizes that Woojin, who sinks so naturally into his role, playing Kenickie with effortless grace, has improved by leaps and bounds thanks to Jihoon’s hand in practice.

Most of all, however, his pride manifests when all of them are gathered on stage in the end, ears deafening at the roar of applause from the audience; Woojin stands at the opposite edge, but he meets Jihoon’s eyes, and mouths, _thank you_.

Aside from pride, there’s a clench in Jihoon’s chest, something he recognizes as what might just be _love_ —love above adoration, above simple admiration. He’s not entirely sure how he feels about that, because fancying Woojin is one thing, but love? That’s on a different scale entirely.

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:** Track 9 of CD 3 — [_Reminiscence_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BNkG8fFxQcE).

Woojin goes backstage, head still high over the thrill of having _successfully_ completed opening night, and did _not_ Seongwoo to practically corner him once he catches sight of the still-dazed boy with the messy hair and sweat running down his face, smearing some of the non waterproof makeup he’s wearing. He barely stops himself from shouting in surprise, because there’s a look on Seongwoo’s eyes that’s _wild_ , but there’s a sliver of hope peeking through—and Woojin thinks, _this might not be about the performance_ , and rather, about a matter that runs more along the lines of Ahn, and Hyungseob.

“Did something happen?” Woojin asks, and when Seongwoo nods, almost frantically, he follows up: “ _Well_?”

“He’s awake,” Seongwoo says, breathless. Woojin’s eyes widen. “Just regained consciousness half an hour ago—they’re accepting visitors.”

Woojin is messy, all matted hair and post performance exhilaration dripping off him in waves, but he _knows_ , more than anything, that this is an opportunity he won’t— _can’t_ pass up. “I’m going to the hospital,” he announces, like Seongwoo didn’t know that’s exactly what he’d do after hearing the fresh piece of information.

“Alright,” Seongwoo doesn’t put up a fight when agreeing, knowing full well there’s no stopping Woojin when it comes to this. “Who else is coming?”

“What?”

“I said, who else is coming?” Seongwoo repeats patiently, although he begins to tap his right foot in a steady rhythm on the floor. “The others have been asking about Hyungseob too, you know.” _You’re not the only one who’s worried._

At the realization, Woojin only barely stops himself from saying something stupid (something along the lines of _oh, I totally knew that_ when he totally _doesn’t_ ) and chews on the inside of his cheek, thinking about who else would agree to coming with him. He’s still not very close to many in the production team, and he briefly thinks about asking Justin Huang, before realizing he probably wouldn’t be in the audience; theatre’s not his thing, and the thought of having to be in the same car as Justin for longer than five minutes would drive Woojin to near madness. The next person that comes into mind is Euiwoong, but then he remembers that Euiwoong has been abroad for a week now, going on a foreign exchange program trip as one of the school’s honor students.

That leaves none of Hyungseob’s best friends (although Woojin’s _sure_ he’s forgetting someone, but for the life of him, can’t remember _whom_ ), but then, there’s Jihoon— who has worked with Hyungseob for years, and while not the best of friends with him, has always seemed to hold a steady and amicable enough relationship. “I’ll ask Jihoon,” he informs, and Seongwoo nods as his own brand of dismissal.

Finding Jihoon is no easy feat, with Woojin getting stopped every few seconds or so whenever he comes across another cast member casting him _good job_ and he _has_ to return the congratulatory message out of both respect and the fact that he really does mean it, but eventually, he comes across the other in the dressing room, playing with his phone. He also tries to keep a look-out for Guanlin, because Woojin still hasn’t given him anything more than a brief arm hug on stage when the younger obviously deserves more after going all out with his performance, but Guanlin’s nowhere to be seen—guess he’ll have to leave the message for tomorrow.

“Jihoon,” he calls out as soon as he’s within ear range, and Jihoon looks up from his phone, casting a curious look. “Do you want to come visit Hyungseob?”

That seems to get his full attention, as Jihoon pockets his phone, rising to his feet. “Yes,” he agrees immediately, even if he doesn’t know the full gravity of the situation; none of them know, actually, other than Seongwoo, Chaeyeon, and himself. What they _do_ know is that Hyungseob is in the hospital—they just don’t know _why_ , but speculations have been running amok. Some have even bothered to ask Woojin, to see if their guesses were right, but all Woojin has done is smile, neither confirming nor denying the theories. It was Seongwoo’s idea, at first, that letting everyone know about Hyungseob’s state would be a bad idea—Woojin can see why, because having news like that just spread could bring down morale in the critical period of time, and (as terrible as this one might sound) could overshadow word of the mouth regarding the play.

 _People will know eventually,_ Seongwoo had said, _but we_ can _make sure it’ll take a while before they get the gist of it_.

He’s grateful for Jihoon’s silence, even after they’ve united with Seongwoo, and now the three of them are back inside Seongwoo’s car—Seongwoo driving at the front, Jihoon and Woojin squished together at the back. This time, the radio is on, and Woojin recognizes the song as a ballad; somber, and oddly suited for the occasion, but he at least _tries_ to be more hopeful about the situation. Hyungseob is conscious now, and things shouldn’t get any worse; he _hopes_ they won’t.

Next to him, Jihoon is almost rigid, though Woojin would attribute that to curiosity. He can read it, clear as day, the questions swirling inside Jihoon’s mind. None of the questions go voiced, to a reason he’d presume as barely there patience. (Jihoon’s always been good at self control. Woojin wishes he had the same level of control over his own emotions, because it’d be _nice_ to stay still during moments like these, instead of clenching and unclenching his hands just to reassure himself that he’s not dreaming.)

When they walk towards Hyungseob’s room, there’s no ballad song accompanying them, and all they have is tense silence, unwilling to be broken by any of them. Seongwoo stares straight ahead, Jihoon still looks unsure and filled to the brim with questions, and Woojin—Woojin’s just trying to make sure he’s keeping his shit together.

(His teeth aren’t chattering in plain nerves. That’s gotta count for something.)

“Try not to be too surprised,” he finds himself murmuring to Jihoon, who must’ve been speculating on _what_ exactly had happened to Hyungseob; still, he receives a shocked nod in response, and Woojin, after a little tingle of hesitation, takes a step closer towards Jihoon. Being near Jihoon has a way of grounding him, and this occasion isn’t an exception.

He pretends not to notice when Jihoon nearly jerks away. (It hurts, but Woojin tries not to let his feelings show.)

Much like what he’d done earlier, Seongwoo knocks, and this time, the one who opens the door is a middle-aged woman who looks at the three of them wearily. “Yes?”

Hyungseob’s mother. Woojin remembers coming across her in the middle school parking lot but never having the gall to say something to her.

“We’re here to visit Hyungseob,” Seongwoo says, as the responsible adult who’s in charge of the two high school students that remain uncharacteristically quiet. “I’m Seongwoo, his teacher. These are Woojin and Jihoon, friends of your son, miss.”

She continues to eye them, and Woojin wonders if they’re going to be let in at all; but in the end, she moves to make way for them to enter, and says, with a voice low enough to be a croak (and Woojin realizes she must’ve been _crying_ ): “Come in.”

Hyungseob’s father isn’t there, and Woojin doesn’t dwell too much on that because his eyes are almost immediately drawn towards the spot that’d been concealed by the yellow curtains; the curtains are now opened, and he can see more than just Hyungseob’s silhouette. He sees _Hyungseob_ , breathing and alive, sitting up on his bed with a plate of hospital food on his lap. Hyungseob sees them, musters what he must consider a smile—it’s faint, very much so, but anything is better than the sight of Hyungseob unconscious.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it,” are Hyungseob’s first words, and Woojin almost doesn’t believe what he’s hearing.

“Out of all the things that’s happened and _that’s_ what you’re sorry for?” Woojin splutters, but his own voice feels so far away.

Hyungseob laughs pitifully. “I probably caused more trouble than what I’m worth.”

“Don’t—don’t say that!”

A soft cough is heard, and when Woojin finds the source, it’s Hyungseob’s mother, who has grown pale. “Do you need to get some air, miss?” Seongwoo asks, and at her gentle nod, he eases her hand in his. “I’ll accompany you.”

Hyungseob’s mother gives a look of unsure towards Hyungseob’s silent form, but at the slight nod, she takes that as her cue to leave. With her not shrugging Seongwoo away, Woojin wonders if that’s her only grip on reality; he doesn’t know how he’d function were he in her position. Seongwoo opens the door, but just before he leaves, Hyungseob’s mother in tow, Jihoon catches up to them.

“Hold up,” he says, and those are the first things Woojin has heard from Jihoon since the single syllable ‘yes’ from earlier. Woojin opens his mouth to ask _why_ , but Jihoon pins him with a long look, and Woojin can tell, somehow from a single glance, that Jihoon can read the situation well enough to give Woojin and Hyungseob some time alone. Before Jihoon leaves, Woojin doesn’t forget to give him a nod, a small acknowledgment for everything Jihoon’s done.

The smile he receives in return is sad and aching, but Woojin can’t comprehend _why_.

“I guess it’s just me and you,” Woojin says, awkwardly, once the other three have left the room. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands; should he keep them limp, or should he try to wring them in an attempt to feel less nerve-wracked than he is?

Hyungseob nods weakly. “You can come sit,” he mutters, gesturing at the plastic chair next to the bed.

Woojin, more than slightly glad he won’t have to keep standing up, gratefully sits on the chair. He doesn’t register how much more difficult it is to face Hyungseob when they’re nearly eye level until he does, though.

“You look like there’s something you want to say,” Hyungseob says, effectively slicing through the quiet. There are many things Woojin wants to say, actually: how Hyungseob’s doing a better job pulling himself together than whatever Woojin is doing, how there’s nothing more he wants to say than _sorry_. A thousand words lap up on his tongue, but before Woojin gets the chance to say them, Hyungseob continues: “I don’t blame you.”

“Wh… Huh?”

“You shouldn’t blame yourself either.” He completely ignores Woojin’s gape. “I was the one who pushed you away. I would’ve pushed you away even if you tried to do more.”

“But Hyungseob—”

“But _nothing_ ,” he sharply cuts through Woojin’s words, and Woojin has _never_ seen Hyungseob like this, stripped bare of what usually leaves him doing actions to please others more than to make himself happy. Woojin wouldn’t know, but maybe that’s what almost dying does to you; they leave you with blunt words, honest in their delivery, and a stare that has no mercy in its sharp judgment. “You did what you could.” Then, his face softens, and he begins to look more like the Hyungseob he once knew. “It was more than what everyone else did for me—but why?”

Woojin stares at him blankly.

“Why would you help me,” Hyungseob starts, plate of food long untouched; “when we barely even talk?”

 _Because I like you,_ Woojin thinks, and tries to gather his wits to come up with a sensible reply—

Except he _doesn’t_ , because Hyungseob’s eyes have grown wide as saucers, and Woojin realizes, belatedly, that he must’ve said that out loud. _Well, fuck me gently with a chainsaw._

“You like me?” Hyungseob asks, and Woojin recognizes that must’ve driven some real shock into him, because his voice has pitched higher yet the words come out as nearly a whisper. (But he’s able to place a hint of disbelief in Hyungseob’s voice, and it’s a curious little thing).

So much for a secret. “Um,” Woojin mumbles, and wants to deny it, but he doesn’t know if lying to Hyungseob, whose state must be delicate enough as it is, would give any merit. In the end, difficult as it is, he settles that—for once—the truth would be the best option. “I do,” he confesses, and his face _burns_ , because he’d never imagined his confession to turn out in a way as disastrous as this.

Hyungseob’s gaze is assessing, and Woojin feels like he’s under a microscope. He wishes his mouth could stay _quiet_ , for once, instead of digging him his own grave.

“I’m flattered,” he finally says, and the shock has mostly worn off, because all remains of surprise has been cleansed from Hyungseob’s face. “But I don’t think you mean what you say, Woojin,” he voices, voice gentle through it all; something akin to kind understanding is in Hyungseob’s eyes, but Woojin doesn’t _get it_.

Is this Hyungseob’s way of rejecting him? (Technically, there’s nothing to reject because all Woojin has done is state his feelings, and has never _asked_ Hyungseob to be his boyfriend or anything, but—he doesn’t know if there’s another word for rejecting that’s not really _rejecting_ but might be, in a sense.)

“You might’ve liked me, once,” he remarks, before Woojin gets the chance to say something idiotic, “but… I think you don’t see me that way, not anymore.”

“But I—”

“It’s hard, separating what’s romantic and what’s platonic after you’ve felt _something_ for so long,” Hyungseob doesn’t sound any less understanding, and maybe, that’s what makes the situation more confusing than it is sad. “But, Woojin… I think you only like me as a friend now.”

“You don’t know that,” he retorts, but it comes out weak, and receiving one of Hyungseob’s odd smiles, Woojin feels like he’s just said something completely unnecessary.

“I think,” Hyungseob begins, slowly, “you might need to reevaluate on who you like.”

“But the one I like is _you_.”

“I don’t see any of that in your eyes,” Hyungseob says flatly. “You’re projecting.”

“Stop trying to dictate what I’m feeling,” he immediately shoots back, and doesn’t realize that he’s just said something that might’ve set something off in someone who’s state of mind is _obviously_ not the best right now. Belatedly (he tends to do things belatedly a _lot_ nowadays), Woojin gasps, and places a hand over his mouth. “I didn’t mean—”

“I’m not going to break just because you said something like that, Woojin,” Hyungseob asserts. “Nor am I going to stop myself from pointing something obvious to everyone else _except_ yourself, it seems.”

Something like dread appears in the pit of Woojin’s stomach. “... Huh?”

“I’m surprised you think you still like me when you look at Jihoon as if he’s the one who put the stars in the night sky,” he intones, and Woojin’s jaw goes slack. “You should… you should know about how your eyes look when you talk about him,” he follows, but this time, he’s more quiet and Hyungseob looks at Woojin with something that isn’t unlike bittersweet reminiscence. “He looks at you the same way too, you know.”

_Jihoon likes him?_

(Wait, no. That’s not the most staggering realization—what floors him the most is the possibility of _him_ liking _Jihoon_ instead of Hyungseob, but suddenly, the realization isn’t so flooring when Woojin realizes, for the past minutes he has spent alone with Hyungseob, his heart hasn’t raced the same way it used to.)

“You understand now, don’t you?” Hyungseob murmurs, realizing the epiphany that makes itself shown on Woojin’s face. “Good. At least I’ve done _something_ useful.”

 _Don’t sound so self deprecating_ , Woojin wishes he could say, but then again, he doesn’t know what Hyungseob is going through. For Hyungseob, his troubles are jarring enough for him to do something like… what he _did_. For Woojin, the most of his troubles are performing, getting enough sleep, and his newly realized feelings for someone he’d never realized he’d grown to care _so much_ about until having the development practically pointed out to him by the same person he thought he still had feelings for.

Woojin might be a mess, but what he’s going through is _nothing_ like what Hyungseob is facing, and he doesn’t want to sound like the asshole who makes other people’s problems sound so little when he doesn’t know the first thing about what they’re going through. Being a dense idiot, apparently, should be enough for him.

“Will you be going back to school soon?” he asks instead, and Hyungseob shrugs.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Dad said he might take me to a shrink.”

“That’s… a good thing, isn’t it?”

Hyungseob puffs out his cheeks. “I don’t know how I feel about it.”

“Whatever happens, you know that I’ll be here for you, right?” And then, Woojin hastily adds, “ _we’ll_ be here for you. Me and everyone else in the production team—we all care about you, Hyungseob.”

Hyungseob goes silent at that; Woojin wonders if that’s because he hadn’t considered the possibility of having his friends worry about him enough to go searching for him all over the school, and not getting angry, only even _more_ worried, when finding out he couldn’t perform because he was in the hospital. “Thanks,” he says at last, and Woojin doesn’t point out how his voice sounds a little strangled.

That’s the exact moment Seongwoo, Jihoon, and Hyungseob’s mother take to return—and the last thing Woojin needs right now is to look at _Jihooon_ , after the fresh realization of the feelings that he _might_ just have for the other. “Good talk?” Seongwoo attempts to start conversation, but all Woojin’s doing is stare at his shoes, wondering when the laces had gone untied. (It’s a sad way of avoiding the train of thought that is Jihoon, _but_.)

“It was alright!” Hyungseob affirms, almost cheerful. The cheer is faked, but the words aren’t.

“I should go now,” Woojin says, and hopes, more than anything, that he doesn’t sound as lost as he feels right now. “Get better soon, Hyungseob,” he bids goodbye, and once he gets up and turns around, he _aims_ to at least give a goodbye bow at the adults—but then, his eyes just _have_ to get automatically attracted towards Jihoon, and he can’t look at him without having Hyungseob’s words ringing like a constant in his head.

So he does what he does best: he runs away, and doesn’t look back even when he distantly identifies Seongwoo’s yells of worry. 

(He’ll be fine. He _has_ to, because unfortunately, calling in sick for confusion over feelings does not make for a good excuse to miss a whole show. For now, however, what Woojin needs is _time_ —a whole night of it—to process the recent, worrying developments that are his Feelings. With a capital F.)

 

 

 

 

Woojin doesn’t get a wink of sleep.

He tosses and turns, trying with _everything_ he can to ignore the buzzing of his texts. It might Jihoon, wondering why he’d stormed off like that. It might be Guanlin, texting him in the middle of the night for no reason other than the fact he’s _Guanlin_. Woojin’s almost tempted to mute his phone, if it weren’t for the fact the constant buzzing is the only thing saving him from going into the worst state of emotional turmoil—so he doesn’t, and learns to live with the annoyance. For the most part, at least.

Does he _like_ Jihoon?

The automatic response is denial. Woojin has never felt romance for anyone _but_ Hyungseob, and yet—he can’t deny that he hasn’t felt the same butterflies he once felt in Hyungseob’s presence recently, but that could just be him getting over Hyungseob after years of one-sided pining. Jihoon might have nothing to do with the equation, and it’s possible Hyungseob saw _wrong_.

(Except, what if he _didn’t_?)

He’s grown fond of Jihoon, and that’s something Woojin would readily admit. _Not_ growing accustomed to Jihoon’s presence and growing a soft spot for him is difficult when he spends most of his days with Jihoon and Guanlin, but getting attached to someone doesn’t always equal to romantic attachments. Take him and Guanlin, for instance—he’d take a bullet for him in a heartbeat, but the thought of dating Guanlin only leaves Woojin with distaste, because it’d feel like dating the baby brother he never really had.

But then, when he tries to think of dating Jihoon, he can’t come up with anything _negative_ about it—unlike how easily it’d come for him to shoot down the very thought of getting romantically involved with Guanlin—aside from having to endure a relationship filled with more banter than any sappy shit the romance novels seem to adore. (Then again, is that _really_ a negative?)

Jihoon is a difficult person, but so is Woojin. And Woojin doesn’t know if he’s ever seen anything as breathtaking as Jihoon when he’d finally managed to overcome his fear of the stage, when he was able to do _something_ he’d been so desperate for but never managed to do for years. The smile Jihoon had then was as brilliant as it was bright, even when some part of him must’ve still been clouded with doubt. Jihoon, with the leather jacket he’d designed himself, was also one of the most attractive things Woojin had ever seen, and—

Those aren’t exactly the most platonic thoughts he could be having about Jihoon, aren’t they.

“Fucking _shit_ , goddamn.”

* * *

 

 **NOW PLAYING:** Track 10 of CD 3 — [_Jam Jam_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2NH7avOIZvc).

Not a lot of people give Guanlin credit for his skills of observation, but he's more than decent at recognizing when two people are ignoring each other—or to be more specific, one party going out of his way to get away from the other while the latter just spends most of the day looking more or less like a dejected puppy—because he can see the unspoken tension between Woojin and Jihoon, a day after opening night where they'd seemed fine just before, with ease that comes from experience.

“Something’s not right,” he says seriously to himself, and nearly bumps into a wall because he’s too deep in thought. Gaining back his focus is noticeably more difficult when someone’s now laughing at him for nearly walking headfirst towards a wall.

Thankfully, the person laughing at him is Seonho. He’d be more embarrassed if he’d been caught by someone who hadn’t practically carried Guanlin back to his home in a state so weak he doesn’t _want_ to think back to that time he’d fallen sick because of fatigue.

“What are you _doing_?” the younger manages to wheeze out after getting a semblance of calm, but after catching sight of Guanlin’s pitiful expression, his laughter comes back full force. People begin to look at them oddly, but once they recognize the laughing figure as Seonho, most of them just look away—having long grown used to his oddity.

“I was thinking,” Guanlin answers, and forces himself _not_ to stumble in his delivery. He has a reputation to uphold. “Don’t you think Woojin and Jihoon _hyung_ are acting weird today?”

Seonho makes a face. “Everyone’s noticed they’re acting weird. Think one of them finally budged and confessed?”

“ _Confessed_?” Guanlin splutters, reputation be _damned_.

“You never noticed…?” Seonho asks, and when Guanlin shakes his head, still in a daze, he tsks. “You’re the person closest to the both of them, but I guess there must be a reason why the  three of you are called the emotionally constipated idiots,” he says sympathetically.

“Wait, what.”

“Nothing,” he’s quick to say, and Guanlin glares, to no avail. “Why don’t you ask Woojin? He’s right there, by the water cooler.” Not very subtly, Seonho points at Woojin, and Guanlin wonders how Woojin doesn’t notice—maybe too lost in his thoughts. Seonho possesses the subtlety of an overgrown puppy, and that is to say, he has none.

Guanlin waves Seonho away, and makes his way towards Woojin, all the while wondering of what he should say. Though small talk might get Woojin to open up, Guanlin is even worse than Woojin at idle chatter, and the only thing he does best when it comes to social interaction is letting the point come across very early in a conversation; and that’s the argument that, in the end, backs his decision to just say it, with no hesitation, even if he hopes he doesn’t come across as harshly blunt.

“ _Hyung_ ,” he greets, once he’s in Woojin’s vicinity. Woojin startles, and at least that proves Guanlin’s assumption of Woojin having been thinking of something hard enough for him to block the world around him. “What’s going on between you and Jihoon _hyung_?”

Woojin starts choking on air, and Guanlin gives his back quick, harsh pats, just to help; he could do more if he had water on his person, but there’s really nothing with him other than his phone, so he has to settle for helping the old-fashioned way. “Sorry,” he apologizes, but he’s not sure if he really means it.

“It’s okay.” Woojin winces. “I was just taken by surprise, that’s all.”

“Could you tell me what’s going on, then?”

Woojin stares at Guanlin as if he’s just asked him to recite the nuclear code, but Guanlin doesn’t make any move to take away his question. He has the right to know, doesn’t he? He’s one of the only people who puts up with them (and vice versa, but he’s totally ignoring that right now), and if there’s something he deserves, it’s to _not_ be kept out of the loop from whatever is going on between them. Bro culture, or something along those lines.

“Do you really want to know?” Woojin asks, and Guanlin wonders why he needs to say this twice.

“Of course,” he makes sure to stress the word, just so Woojin won’t ask the second time. His expectations range from Woojin accidentally finding Jihoon’s naked baby pictures to them hiding a body in the woods together—like it’s _his_ fault he has an active imagination.

Woojin sighs, and after mumbling something under his breath that suspiciously sounds like _I’m going to regret this_ , he gives Guanlin the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

(A part of him is slightly disappointed the reality isn’t as exciting as the scenario of them hiding a body together after accidentally coming across one on a late night rendezvous, but then again, the chance of that actually happening was never really that high.)

Guanlin’s left nodding by the end of Woojin’s story, not because he has nothing to say, but because whatever he _does_ want to say, he’s sure Woojin would’ve realized by now. For example, the thing that itches him the most, what he _really_ wants to verbalize, is: “ _Hyung_ , for someone who can figure out other people’s emotions easily, you sure can be an idiot at figuring out your own.”

But, Woojin’s already said something about realizing how big of an idiot he was, so Guanlin finds enough mercy in himself to spare Woojin.

“So, what are you going to do?” Guanlin asks, and he tries, he really _does_ put an effort, to make sure he doesn’t sound emotionless. Apparently, according to Seonho, he has a knack for sounding deadpan and unimpressed even when that isn’t the case. (Guanlin is working on this).

Woojin shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe you should talk about it,” Guanlin suggests, because talking always seems to help.

Except Woojin blanches at the word ‘talk’, like Guanlin’s just told him to go and run for the hills and never look back. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” he sighs, and Guanlin feels pity—but not enough for him to completely disregard the idea of telling Jihoon about all of this and meddling with something that shouldn’t be _his_ to meddle with, but if his meddling will result in the duo’s moping to come to a close, then meddling is exactly what he’s ready to do.

“Well.” Guanlin wrings his arms awkwardly. Tries not to look too obvious in what he’s planning, because if Woojin sees through his plan, he can forget tonight’s show; he’ll be dead in a heartbeat. “Good luck,” he says, before giving the World’s Most Painful Fingergun To Watch to an uncomfortable looking Woojin.

Finding Jihoon is easy, which is unexpected considering his knack to run away every few seconds, but today must be Guanlin’s lucky day because he comes across the other male partaking in this drama just as Guanlin heads towards the dressing rooms to take his bag. Jihoon looks down, for lack of better term, and at least Guanlin knows _why_ he looks so sad rather than continuing to be stuck coming up with his own conclusions.

“Jihoon _hyung_ , there’s something I’ve got to say to you.”

Jihoon seems uncertain, but he nods anyway, keeping a wary eye on Guanlin.

Guanlin tells Jihoon _everything_ that Woojin has said, relaying every word to his best ability; hell, he even tries to make sure his words match up with Woojin’s, only paraphrasing when there are small gaps in his memory.

“So, long story short, he’s just having a mini freak out because he realized he _like likes_ you,” Guanlin finalizes, completely satisfied with the way he’d managed to sum it up.

Jihoon has gone completely red in the face. “Guanlin, you’re not lying to me, are you?” he says, and there’s a threatening edge to the words that promises Guanlin a whole new world of suffering if he _were_ lying. Thankfully, he isn’t.

“Cross my heart,” Guanlin promises, and hey, at least he’s now figured out he’s not half bad at playing matchmaker.

(At least, if Jihoon’s willing to do _something_ about this, because he sure can’t trust Woojin to take control of the situation. If Guanlin hadn’t done a single thing to intervene, a part of him is certain the drama would’ve dragged on for _months_.)

“What do you think I should do?” Jihoon asks, looking deep in thought.

An idea, outrageous and most likely something that’d happen in a Nicholas Sparks novel, takes shape in Guanlin’s head. “Actually,” he begins, and knows he’s about to become the mastermind of something that’ll either succeed to the point he’d want a trademark to it or (as a worst case scenario) crash and burn and leave nothing unscathed. “I have a plan.”

Jihoon’s ears perk with interest. Guanlin hopes neither of them will live to regret this.

 

 

 

 

Dongho once told him that the first performance was always going to be more daunting than the last, but it’s more difficult to part from the last performance rather than the first.

Guanlin never really understood what he’d meant—only assumed it was just another Dongho Thing, stored the thought in the back of his mind, and focused on something else.

But now, their last performance finished and all their hard work remunerated, Guanlin _finally_ understands.

There’s something both satisfied, yet _sad_ that reverberates in his chest. And Guanlin doesn’t know when that surfaced, but what he _does_ know is, now that he’s standing in front of the crowd, having his name called upon to the stage for the second and simultaneously the last time (at least, for now), the feeling only grows stronger when he casts his eyes over the audience; baiting to see how much they’d enjoyed the performance he’d worked day and night to improve on, trying to see if he hadn’t been as much as an utter failure as he thought he would’ve been, once upon a time.

He smiles through it all, the way a true performer would. Even when the sadness overtakes the satisfaction, even when he begins to twitch from the smell that emanates from his leather jacket, and even when the grease in his hair begins to feel more uncomfortable than just a simple nuisance he can ignore.

“Guanlin,” someone hisses, and he retracts his stare from the crowd, instead bending his head to look at the one attempting to get his attention—Somi. “The preparations are ready.”

More than just the last performance, there’s also something Guanlin has begun working on only a few hours ago, and that’s something that’s bound to either help Jihoon and Woojin, or send their already fragile relationship free falling to the ground. For everyone’s sake, Guanlin’s putting all his money on the former happening instead of the worst case scenario.

“Where’s Jihoon?” he whispers in return, and Somi discreetly nods towards a figure, all shadows and dark spots, obscured by the curtain. He _ah_ s appropriately at that, and says, “thanks.”

“No problem,” Somi chirps. Always chirping—Guanlin wonders how she can be so chipper all the time. He can’t relate, because most days, he’s just _there_. “I hope this’ll work out for them,” she adds, pursing her lips together.

“I hope so too,” Guanlin agrees with the sentiment, and after giving a last bow towards the still roaring crowd, he makes his way towards Jihoon, walking aside the other actors caught up in their post performance euphoria. (Guanlin actually enjoys basking in the feeling of success as well, but there are important matters at hand, and he can force emotions to pass quicker than the duration they’d usually take, very easily.)

He slides the curtains open, and walks behind the curtains, finding a crouching Jihoon with a plastic flower caught between his teeth. (The flower is pretty, a red rose, but it’s fake and Siyeon swiped it from the vase in the nurse’s office—when asked, her reasoning had been: _Well it won’t die_.)

“ _Hyung_ ,” Guanlin murmurs, making his presence known. Jihoon’s head darts upwards, and he quirks a brow in response. “Are you ready? We’re not getting any younger.”

Jihoon closes his eyes, sucks in a deep breath. Guanlin pretends not to notice when Jihoon uses his fingers to count to three before exhaling, fluttering his eyes open. “Not really,” he says, in a rare show of admitting his weakness. “But you’ve got a point. Not like I’ll ever be fully ready  to do something like this,” he says, and rises to his feet, wincing as he does. “Leg cramp.”

“You were probably just crouching for too long. Nothing too serious. But other than that—you’re okay, right?” Guanlin _is_ a worrier, but somehow, that aspect of his personality heightens on matters concerning Jihoon. Must be because Jihoon looks delicate, even when Guanlin’s well aware he’s anything but.

“Wait.” Jihoon circles his feet on the ground before nodding. Then, last minute, he remembers to take the flower out of his mouth, and grips it tightly with his right hand. “I’m alright now.”

Guanlin peeks his head out of the curtains, spies the person he’s looking for, and makes the gesture he’d planned—making a circle with his thumb and index finger on his right hand, since apparently saying _the eagle is calling_ is an overkill. Doyeon’s eyes widen, but she nods, and rushes off to flick off the stage lights from the other end of the stage.

Jihoon, once the lights are out—much to the evident confusion of the frantically whispering audience—walks towards the stage, path easier now that Guanlin’s holding the curtain open for him. That’s the least he could do to help, because if he were in Jihoon’s position, he’d be _terrified_ out of his wits.

“I have something to say,” Jihoon begins to say, but his voice doesn’t come out on the speakers, so Guanlin makes the gesture to turn his microphone back on—he hopes Jihoon can see at least a _little_ through the darkness, but when Jihoon moves to do just as Guanlin instructed, he heaves a deep sigh of relief. “I have something to say,” he repeats his previous statement, but this time his voice rings all over the theatre—then, as they’d planned, the spotlight turns on and shines upon Jihoon; he blinks to adjust to the light, but that doesn’t take him long. _As expected of a pro,_ Guanlin awes, not with just a little bit of envy.

Some of the people in on the plan (and that is to say, almost the entirety of the production team) have begun to record the scene, ready to upload it on _Snapchat_. Guanlin would do the same, except he doesn’t have a _Snapchat_ , so he settles for watching his plan play out, all while crossing his fingers that for once, Woojin won’t make things difficult for Jihoon.

(No, really; he loves Woojin, admires him even more than he loves—but. _But_.)

“Park Woojin”—someone in the audience _gasps_ —”I like you.”

The world explodes into massive uproar, and for some reason, the orchestra begins to play, in a hurry, what must be a rendition of the theme song from _Titanic_. (He didn’t plan that. But then he sees Seongwoo’s shit eating grin in the crowd, and—yeah, that must’ve been his doing.)

The lightning team manages to find Woojin, because they cast another light on him. The main focus is on those two now, and while some people from the audience had meant to leave earlier, until now, nobody has left the theatre; it isn’t everyday you get to see a theatre confession, and Guanlin can only pray this won’t be a scheme gone wrong.

On a micro scale, it’d only lead (well, not _only_ ) to a fall out between Jihoon and Guanlin.

On a macro scale, if it didn’t work out, this might become some kind of meme, and Jihoon could be a worldwide joke. That’s… really not that Jihoon needs, and it’s the farthest thing Guanlin would want to weigh on his conscience.

“Someone told me, you feel the same way too.” Jihoon casts a quick look at Guanlin, who gives him a thumbs up. _You’re doing great, hyung_. “I don’t know how long I’ve liked you, actually,” he says, and his face is _red_ , from both the heat of the spotlight and whatever shred of shyness he has finally making an appearance. Woojin doesn’t look any better, making the perfect picture of a deer caught in the headlights, standing deathly still. Guanlin hopes he’s not broken or something. “But—I just know that you’re a very important person to me. Even though I try to make it seem like I like you less than I actually do, you should know that I don’t… I don’t _really_ mean all the bad things I say about you. Or when I call you an idiot. Because you’re not.”

Jihoon pauses. “Where was I going with this.”

Someone who sounds a lot like Siyeon shouts: “Ask him to consider your feelings!”

“Oh, right!” Jihoon yells back, and follows up with, “thanks, Siyeon!”

Guanlin’s palm smacks his forehead. He should’ve known something like this would’ve happened, no matter how much he’d run the sequence with Jihoon, because they’re all a mess.

“I know it’s too early to say it’s love,” Jihoon continues, as if he hadn’t gotten lost just a few seconds ago, “but I hope it’s not too quick for me to say that I like you—and, I like you a lot. Have been for a while, though like I said, I don’t really remember how it started at first. Maybe it was something that happened gradually, like how you managed to fit yourself into my life. Or maybe it’s something that happened after you helped me with my fright, doing something I never thought would be possible.”

Woojin’s doing a good job at not passing out. He’s seemed to regain some of his movements now, because he’s staring at Jihoon with something that isn’t unlike wonder, and Guanlin wishes he could see what’s happening easier because he can practically _feel_ the quiet joy coming from Woojin. Some of Guanlin’s more negative worries about the plan dissipates as time passes and Woojin hasn’t stormed off from the theatre in a way Guanlin is sure would’ve had he been too overwhelmed.

“I like you too, Jihoon,” Woojin blurts out, just as Jihoon was opening his mouth to follow up with further confession. His eyes widen upon realizing what he’s just said, and Guanlin never even knew a person could get even _redder_ , but Woojin does—and for a second, no one says anything, until the silence is broken by someone in the audience shouting, “never knew Kenickie and Doodie were gay for each other, but that’s cool!”

And then everyone’s yelling and squealing, and Guanlin’s ears hurt, but that’s worth it; because at least he _knows_ his plan has done its intended job, and while he might have to deal with a lovesick couple as his best friends, that’s a much better thing to hang around than two emotionally constipated, oblivious fools.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

Jihoon sweeps in for a kiss, but their noses accidentally clash, and Woojin staggers back with a yelp, hands nursing his throbbing nose.

In the end, they settle for a hug. That’s fine—a hug is still better than skirting around the topic like two lovestruck idiots in denial of each other’s feelings. And Guanlin’s pretty sure they’ll have all the time they need to get better at the kissing aspect of the relationship.

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:** Track 11 of CD 3 — [_Lit_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rSn1M0hVf6E).

A week should be enough for someone to get himself together, but that must not be the case for Hyungseob; he can still feel the lingering effects of all the things he’s done, and he _knows_ how much he’s changed, as a person. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to be the same person he once was, but if he’s stuck with a changed personality—better get used to it.

“Are you sure about this?” his dad asks, car right outside the gates of the school. Hyungseob takes off his seatbelt, wraps the straps of his backpacks on his shoulders.

“Yeah,” Hyungseob says, though he still has his fair share of doubts; but he doesn’t know when he’ll be able to gather the same energy he’d felt this morning, and maybe it’s now or never. “I won’t be long.”

He won’t. And those aren’t empty words, because he’s only here to drop by theatre practice, to see if there’s a way for him to act like nothing ever happened. He doesn’t know how else to cope—seeing a shrink is a possibility, as his parents constantly mention, but he doesn’t _know_ if he’s ready. Right now, what he needs is familiarity, and company to keep his destructive thoughts from running wild in his head. Not again.

The school is mostly empty. Almost an hour has passed since the bell of dismissal, and only certain people are around at this hour. Most of those certain people would be gathered at the theatre, but Hyungseob, trying to sneak a peek inside without having to push the door open completely, sees nobody.

Huh. Maybe they cancelled practice today and he didn’t get the memo—that’d mean he came all the way here for nothing, and that’s a disappointment; then again, what isn’t?

Still—a part of him doesn’t want to leave immediately. Wants to take a step forward, to look at what has essentially been his whole _world_ for the past few years. So he does, closing the door primly behind him, and barely registers it as odd how some of the lights are on, despite having nobody around. Someone must’ve forgotten to turn them off.

And then, out of nowhere: “Welcome back, Hyungseob!”

A crowd of people step out from backstage, and Hyungseob doesn’t know if this is real, because there _can’t_ be a reason why so many people would gather in one place just to—what? Congratulate him for not dying?

At the very center is Guanlin, carrying a cake (they got a fucking _cake_ ) with his hands. Scattered around him are everyone else he’s known, some for years and some only for months, and he tries to find something in their faces that’ll lead to him believing that maybe, this was all some kind of joke; after all, why would they do something like this for someone who’d done nothing but make their lives more difficult for the past few months?

“Come up here!” someone yells at him, and Hyungseob, feeling light headed and _this has got to be a dream_ , makes his way towards the stage, eyes widened and jaw long gone slack. They cheer when he goes up the stairs, and they cheer even louder when his legs haven’t lost their energy to stand in front of Guanlin, trapped in the center, and Hyungseob barely trusts himself to look at them without breaking down. And that’s why he settles for looking at the cake, and the picture of the messily baked (but obviously homemade) strawberry cake with the red frosting spelling _Welcome back Hyungseob_ (no punctuation) imprints itself in his mind. He doesn’t know if he can ever forget.

“Do you like it?” Woojin asks, and he sounds worried; _of course_ he does, because who else would’ve come up with the idea to do something just to congratulate Hyungseob on going back to school.

 _Does_ Hyungseob like it? Truthfully, he’s not sure _how_ he feels about all this. On one hand, while knowing they’re seeing his return as something to celebrate rather than a nuisance is… it’s not _bad_ —but at the same time, he wonders if they’d been forced into doing this, if all he’s being right now is a bother to all of them.

“It’s definitely something,” he says weakly, and technically, that isn’t a lie.

“Woojin thought of the idea,” Guanlin pipes up, and Hyungseob had anticipated that. “But I baked the cake with Jihoon! Sorry if it’s a little burnt. It was his first time in the kitchen.”

Hyungseob can see that, very clearly, with the loopy scrawling and the uneven colours. But he has no right to complain; if anything, he should be grateful they haven’t decided to kick him outright.

“Thank you,” he says, and Guanlin hands the cake over to Hyungseob’s arms. He takes it gingerly, and cradles it close to his chest, with just enough distance the treat won’t smear all over his outfit. “How did you know I’d be here?”

Guanlin smiles sheepishly. “Your dad told us.”

 _Figures_.

“We just wanted you to know,” Jihoon starts saying, and Hyungseob’s mouth dries when he  realizes Jihoon is looking at him with genuine concern instead of something _faked_. That’s how he knows none of this was a cruel set up; Jihoon isn’t someone who gets roped into things he doesn’t like, and to see the concern being so _real_ —that’s enough to punch the breath right out of his chest. “That we’re here for you. And the road to recovery isn’t easy, but we’ll be with you every step of the way.”

… Hyungseob can’t help it. He feels tears pooling at the edge of his vision, eyes beginning to burn, his throat getting choked up; this is just _too much_ , and then he’s crying, with sadness, relief, happiness, and every other emotion that’s made things so, _so_ difficult for him. He doesn’t know when someone has begun to cradle his head affectionately, when someone started whispering, _it’s alright, we’re here_.

There are times when he wonders if he’ll ever be okay again. Right now, there are still some scars left untouched, parts of his heart still crowded with his demons; but at the same time, newfound light grows inside him, giving him a semblance of a sensation of the version of himself he thought he’d lost.

So Hyungseob cries, and while the tears make his throat grow parched, the lack of comfort is nothing compared to the hope that finally, after disappearing and leaving him roaming in dark tunnel he thought would never end, _returns_.

* * *

**NOW PLAYING:** Track 12 of CD 3 — [_Finale_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r-nKoW1rVu8).

“Woojin, you must know why I’ve called you here.”

He knows—had known from the very moment the intercom announced his summon for the principal’s office, actually. But rather than spending his time dwelling on reasons, Woojin had been too busy realizing he’s not terrified of Miss Kwon anymore; intimidated yes, to some degree, because her aura remains _overwhelming_. The fear has disappeared, though—maybe that’s because over the course of the past few months, he’s been thrown criticism harsher than whatever she has ever said to him, and has now faced things that are far more daunting in prospect than a stern headmistress.

“Is this about my community service being over?” he guesses, and she nods; “oh. Do I have to leave the theatre club?”

Miss Kwon’s eyes gleam with something akin to surprise, but she glosses over it quickly, with the ease of someone who’s spent years concealing her emotions in front of students. “That’s the general idea of this conversation,” she says cautiously. “You’re free to return to your dance club activities full time.”

Woojin bites his lip. “But if I want to stay?”

“... Stay?” she echoes faintly. “You don’t want to leave?”

He thinks back on all the things he’s gained, and briefly compares them to what he’s lost. He might’ve lost more time spent modern dancing, but theatre makes up for that by feeding him new choreographies to practice and devour almost every time he brings himself to near mastery of a specific move. He realizes he doesn’t spend as much time with any of the dance club members, but even having to spend more than two hours in the same breathing space of Ong Seongwoo is vastly more appealing than doing the same with Justin Huang. (Maybe he shouldn’t be so harsh towards Justin. He’s considerably mellowed out ever since Hyungseob started attending school again.)

Then, he remembers Guanlin, who initially joined theatre just to repay a debt that didn’t even exist in Woojin’s dictionary; Guanlin who has gained so _much_ , experience and friends and a fire that burns brightly of confidence that’d once been barely a spark.

And finally, he thinks about Jihoon: A now constant presence in his life, but it isn’t as if Woojin would have it any other way. He’s not sure if he’d be able to spend a day now without having his phone constantly buzz with texts from Jihoon about topics ranging from the lady at the convenience store to his father beginning to tangle about a brand new idea for his next novel. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to return to his life before he’d known the joy that makes his chest feel like it could burst whenever his hands are entangled with Jihoon’s, or when their bodies are close, curled up together watching a movie on Guanlin’s choice despite the younger’s (half hearted) complaining about ‘disgusting honeymoon phase PDA’.

He knows, without having to think about this twice, that he doesn’t _want_ to go back to a time where he would have to spend prolonged periods of time before being able to bicker with Jihoon about things that they act make them tick, but actually _don’t_. Only spark an irritation that doesn’t go without fondness, never with any real spite going hand in hand with their quarrels.

(If he leaves, he’s going to miss being able to sneak little clumsy kisses with Jihoon when nobody’s looking, too.)

“I’ll stay,” he decides, firm in his resolution. “I think I like it there.”

Miss Kwon’s eyes soften. “I can see that,” she says, and writes something down on her computer. Woojin only sits, unsure if he’s dismissed or if there are still things to be conversed on. “I’ve updated your file,” she explains, after she lifts her fingers from the keyboard. “You’re now an official member of the theatre club.”

Woojin stands up, and the impact leaves his seat rattling backwards. He’s quick to walk behind his chair instead, and pushes it back to its previous spot before bending his head in a bow. “Thank you so much, Miss Kwon.” He means it—because if she hadn’t intervened with the punishment he’d ended up receiving, he’s not sure if any of _this_ would’ve ever happened.

When he walks out of the door, head held high in contrast to the gloom that’d made itself a tangible presence his last time in the principal’s office, his whole being soars.

Woojin can hear the humming in his soul, the thrum of his bones—this is the start of something _amazing_ , and he can hardly wait to experience what else is in store.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's... it's over.
> 
> i can only hope this wasn't a let down; i'll start on the editing process soon.
> 
> thank you for reading and being a part of this wild ride. this is the longest piece i've ever written, and i expected this to be 40k at most, but _apparently._
> 
> if you have any thoughts to share, do leave them; you can give them in the form of a comment (all lengths appreciated!), or you could hit me up on [twitter](https://twitter.com/uitsdonghyun), [tumblr](fyodorred.tumblr.com), or [cc](https://curiouscat.me/lqdonghyun).
> 
> again, thank you for reading.


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